


Beloved Baker Street

by LadyLibby



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Blood, F/M, Faked character death, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Love, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Series Rewrite, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Slow Burn, Tall!Reader, following the plot of the show, im serious this the crock pot story of slow burns, john watson is an icon, mycroft is actually kind of a good friend, updated (almost) every wednesday, very honestly the reader dont need no man but i mean...sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2018-11-30 08:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 94,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11459787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLibby/pseuds/LadyLibby
Summary: Y/N Hudson grew up in America, daughter to a loving British mother and the leader of a notorious drug cartel in Florida. She grew into a brilliant and yet compassionate young woman with a penchant for solving mysteries. As soon as she could, Y/N escaped the criminal life of her father and went to school on the other side of the country to discover who she was outside of gang wars and drug smuggling.Once news reached her of her father's death, she began to consider the possibility of a life in London closer to her mother and her British roots.Accepted into the forensic department at Scotland Yard, Y/N never expected to be swept up into the whirlwind life of Sherlock Holmes....





	1. A Study In Pink Part 1

“How is Pennsylvania? Are things going well?” Martha Hudson asked, her voice slightly distorted through the speaker of a phone.

Her daughter, Y/N, held the cell phone wedged in between her ear and her shoulder as she folded some newly laundered sweaters. 

“Better than the lab back in Denver, I must say.” The young woman replied with a sigh. “I blame you and Papa you know, mum. I was raised to expect so much more action!” She laughed. 

“Don’t remind me, dear. I hate to think on what your childhood was because of your father and me. Although I think I can say it was mostly your father.” The older woman lamented. 

“Oh mama, I was only teasing. I turned out just fine.” 

“Yes, well I think that was due to you, muffin, not anything that I did.” 

Y/N smiled at the pet name she’d heard so often growing up. Y/N Hudson hadn’t seen her mother in person since right after her father had died, some years before. The young biochemist had flown out to London and spent a few days with her mother, repairing the relationship they had lost when Y/N left at 18 to go to school and get away from the “business” her father was involved in.

“Mama, I was thinking...maybe I should look for a job over there and come live in London. I know it’s a big change, but frankly, I hate my job here. Besides, I’ve been wanting to live closer to you for a while.” Y/N suggested, nervously playing with a lock of hair.

Over her 26 years, Y/N had had a complicated dynamic with her family. Her parents’ marriage was an ill-advised impulsive decision that neither could see lasting. Barely a year after Y/N came into the world, they moved to Florida. Her father, Frank, got in with a really bad crowd and eventually began to run a drug cartel. Mrs. Hudson didn’t know about his dealings until Y/N was in elementary school. By that point, she did her best to keep Y/N away from Frank, but the father wasn’t one to be separated entirely. 

He taught the young child how to shoot a gun, and put her into self defense classes. He was a terrible man, but he cared about his child. During her adolescence, Y/N resented her mother’s choice to stay, determined to leave it all behind and become independent as soon as she possibly could. 

Always intelligent and fascinated by science, Y/N was accepted to Reed College on a full scholarship. Belongings packed, and with all the money she had saved over the years, Y/N left. Her mother found a note the next day saying that Y/N was going to college. She assured Mrs. Hudson that she loved her, but she needed to make a new life for herself. 

Y/N graduated top of her class with a major in biochemistry and a minor in history. At first, she worked in research, alongside dedicated scientists. Inevitably, the work was too dull for the quick minded young woman. Needing to work her brain, Y/N changed careers. Being a CSI fit her perfectly, but she still felt as though something was missing. She missed her mother. 

“Really? That’s all I’ve wanted since you left for school, but I knew you needed to come back in your own time.” Mrs. Hudson said ecstatically. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know if Scotland Yard is hiring, would you?” Y/N half-joked. 

~

4 Months Later

Working as a forensic scientist for Scotland Yard was interesting to say the least. Despite having been the head of her department in the States, Y/N was expected to take orders from Philip Anderson. He wasn’t unpleasant, but the man was vastly overconfident in his abilities. Not to mention the obvious (to Y/N at least) affair he was having with Detective Sergeant Donovan. This meant he made Y/N stick to the small cases such as robbery. The pace at which she assisted the officers and detectives working the cases greatly increased the efficiency of the forensics unit, but left Y/N agonizingly bored. 

Detective Inspector Lestrade caught wind of the “case whiz” in forensics, paid her a visit. A friendship formed immediately between the CSI and the DCI. Lestrade began assigning her to more high priority cases. Y/N was beyond happy to challenge her brain. 

Y/N had quickly discovered that Sherlock Holmes, the man who was responsible for her father’s execution and very likely the new inhabitant of 221B, was her colleague...sort of. The world’s only consulting detective would swoop into the precinct in a whirl of smug deductions and intrigue, and leave just as quickly. He had spoken to her once, when she was coming to visit her mother. 

Seconds after knocking on the darkly painted door, it swung open to reveal the tall detective. 

He surveyed her quickly. “You’ll be wanting to rent somewhere else.” 

“Excuse me?” She said, taken off guard. 

“You’ve come to ask about an apartment that was just signed to me.” He explained unhelpfully. 

Barely ten minutes earlier, she’d been testing some DNA for a case he was assisting Lestrade one. Fully aware of his skill set, and realizing he had no idea who she was, Y/N walked past him and into the foyer. 

“Good thing I’m not here about the flat, then. You’ll be wanting to call DCI Lestrade about the DNA from the crime scene.” She said with a smile, closing the door. 

A day or two after meeting Sherlock at Baker Street, the fourth body in a string of seemingly unconnected suicides turned up in Brixton. At Lestrade’s request, Y/N came along with Anderson to the crime scene. 

“I already looked the body over. I don’t see why she-” Anderson complained. 

“She’ll pick up what you miss.” Lestrade said, ushering Y/N into the room. 

A voice over his walkie talkie took the DCI back down the stairs as Y/N got to work. She examined the woman first, confirming that asphyxiation was the cause of death. The woman’s jewelery had all been recently cleaned, but her wedding was not. Removal of the golden accessory, coupled with perfectly manicured nails proved a serial adulterer in a long and unhappy marriage.. 

“She’s German. ‘Rache,’ means revenge.” Anderson said snootily, referring to the clearly unfinished note scratched into the wooden floor. Y/N didn’t even dignify his comment with a response. The most likely explanation was the name “Rachel.”

Next, Y/N studied the woman’s coat, finding the back, and under the collar wet while the collar was not. In a pocket was a dry, unused umbrella. Pulling out her cell phone, Y/N did a search of weather reports across the UK in the past three hours. Reaching her conclusion, Y/N went to finish her examination when Anderson interrupted. 

“Look, I think that’s enough. Holmes just arrived and I want to go make sure he doesn’t mess with the scene.” Anderson grabbed Y/N’s arm and took her down the stairs. 

With a sigh, she followed. While he went down to mark his territory, Y/N talked with one of the other forensic scientists about the possibility of ties to the black market or under the counter sales of whatever poison was killing these people. 

Recognizing the deep dulcet tones of one Sherlock Holmes coming from upstairs, along with Anderson annoyingly repeating his German theory. Y/N returned to the wood rotted room at the top of the house. 

Sherlock voiced his deduction. “She’s from out of town though. Intended to stay only one night before returning to-”

“Cardiff.” Y/N finished, leaning against the doorframe. 

Sherlock studied her for a moment in silence, eyes narrowed in recognition. Another man was with him. He was shorter, with salt and pepper hair. He carried himself like a soldier, and seemed to have a psychosomatic limp. 

“So far, so obvious.” Sherlock continued. 

“Sorry, obvious?” The companion asked, mirroring the confused expression Greg was sending towards Y/N.

Lestrade put up a bit of a fight when Dr. Watson, the friend, was asked to look at the corpse. He insisted that the team would take care of it, nodding a head in your direction. The DCI gave in however, when Sherlock pointed out how out of his depth the inspector was. 

“Let him have a look.” Y/N said, staying her spot in the doorway. 

Lestrade joined you by the door and watched. Whilst Dr. Watson examined the body, Sherlock and Y/N continued to observe one another. The army doctor came to the same conclusion that Y/N had less than ten minutes previously. 

“Sherlock, I said two minutes, I need anything you’ve got.” Lestrade cut in. 

“Victim is in her late thirties, a professional person going by her clothes.” Sherlock began. 

“Likely the media, based on the shade and theme of pink.” Y/N added. 

“Traveled from Cardiff today, only intending to stay one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.” Sherlock continued. 

“Suitcase?” Lestrade and Y/N asked at the same time. 

“Yes, a suitcase.” Sherlock dismissed before going on to mention her long unhappy marriage and multiple unaware lovers. 

“If you’re just making this up…” Lestrade exclaimed in annoyance. 

“He’s not, trust me.” Y/N moved over closer to the body. “The ring is at least ten years old. While the rest of her jewelry is clean and looks as if it’s cleaned regularly, her ring is dirty. If you remove the ring, the inside is shiny, suggesting frequent removal. Her hands are well taken care of and her nails impeccable which means she isn’t removing it to work with her hands.” 

“Begs the question of who or what she removes the ring for. Clearly not one lover, she’d never sustain the charade of being single for that long. So more likely a string of them. Simple.” Sherlock finished. 

The tall detective matched Y/N’s smile with a small twitch of his lips. 

“Brilliant.” Dr. Watson said, looking between his flatmate and the forensic scientist. “Sorry,” he added when Sherlock shot him a look. 

“Cardiff?” Lestrade asked, looking to both this time. 

Y/N smiled, gesturing for Sherlock to take this one. He looked to the other men, finding the answer to be blatantly obvious. They looked to him in confusion. 

“Dear god, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring.” Sherlock wondered. 

Speaking very quickly, Sherlock explained the coat and the umbrella, the distance of her travels, and the lack of rain in London. 

“Where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of her travel time?” 

“Cardiff.” Y/N said again. 

“That’s fantastic!” John exclaimed. 

“How do you know there was a suitcase?” Y/N asked. 

As Sherlock pointed out the splash pattern on the woman’s calf, Y/N’s smile turned into a full grin. That was the one thing she’d missed in her examination. 

“There wasn’t a case.” Lestrade pointed out. 

Y/N’s brain buzzed with new possibilities and deductions. Sherlock met her gaze, before rushing from the room. He was talking at a mile a minute again, leaving Lestrade and Dr. Watson in the dust. 

“They aren’t suicides, it’s murder.” Y/N tried to explain, only confusing Lestrade further. 

“The killer drove her here, forgot the case was in the car…” 

“She could have checked into a hotel, and left the case there!” The doctor suggested. 

“She never got to hotel. Look at her hair! She coordinated her lipstick, her shoes-....oh!” Sherlock when silent before rushing all the way downstairs yelling about the killer’s mistake: pink. 

Anderson and the officers pushed past Y/N and moved into the room to finish cleaning up. Lestrade grabbed her arm. 

“Remind me why you aren’t a detective again?” 

“I love the science, Greg.” She said with a smile. 

“Right, well, you’ll be working a lot more cases with me.” He grumbled. 

Outside, Y/N found Donovan speaking to Dr. Watson. The forensic scientist had never gotten along great with the lieutenant. Sally had made some snide remarks about Y/N’s appearance when they had been introduced. After that, the interaction between the women had been cold and limited. 

“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.” She told him, walking past Y/N to talk to Lestrade.

Y/N rolled her eyes, running to catch up with the doctor. “Dr. Watson!” 

“Hi. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.” She extended a hand. “Y/N Hudson.” 

“John Watson. Have we met before tonight? You look familiar.” He asked. 

“Are you Sherlock’s new flatmate?” Y/N asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes. Well, no. I haven’t moved in just yet.” He said, clearly annoyed at having been left behind. 

“Mrs. Hudson, the landlady is my mother. Listen, I don’t know Sherlock very well at all, but I do know that you shouldn’t listen to Donovan. She doesn’t get on with anyone unless they’re just as bitchy as she is. That’s why she and Anderson are...well you know.” Y/N said. 

John laughed. “Will I be seeing more of you, Y/N?” 

“That all depends on if you move into Baker Street, now doesn’t it?” She said with a smile. 

“Y/N!” Lestrade hollered from the house. 

“Take care, Dr. Watson.” She said before heading back to her colleagues. 


	2. A Study In Pink Part 2

“Why didn’t I think of that?” John wondered as Sherlock concluded how he had found Jennifer Wilson’s suitcase. 

“Because you’re an idiot.” Sherlock said bluntly. “No, no don’t be like that, practically everyone is.” 

There was a knock at the front door, and the two men could hear Mrs. Hudson exclaiming happily after she opened it. 

“But not everyone...” Sherlock thought aloud.

Very suddenly, the detective was out of his seat and rushing down into the foyer. Mrs. Hudson shouted “Sherlock!” He reappeared almost as fast as he left, bringing Y/N with him. John gave her a sympathetic smile. 

“Made a decision then, Dr. Watson?” She teased in greeting.

“We’ll see how this night goes.” He replied. 

Her gaze traveled over to where the pink case lay. She smiled, unsurprised. Sherlock perched once again on his chair. 

“You certainly don’t disappoint, Mr. Holmes.” She said. “Was it in there?” 

Sherlock smirked slightly. “Afraid not.” 

“Was what in there?” John asked, feeling as though the two were speaking in code. 

“Her phone.” Y/N clarified, moving further into the room and shedding her coat. “There wasn’t a phone on the body and it’s not in the case.” 

“Who did I just text?” John asked.

Y/N observed the two in interest. Her mother had spoken highly of Sherlock, and Y/N already got along with John. She hoped that the future would hold excitement should she succeed in befriending them.

John’s phone rang. 

“Have you talked to the police?” John asked in concern as Sherlock got up. 

“She’s here, isn’t she?” Sherlock said, gesturing to Y/N. 

Y/N laughed, putting her coat back on. “I do have a badge and everything…” 

Sherlock smirked. A few moments later they were flying out the door crying promises of being back later to a very confused Mrs. Hudson. 

“Think, who is unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?” Sherlock asked as the three of them walked towards Northumberland Street. 

“I dunno, who?” John asked. 

“I haven’t the faintest.” Sherlock guided them into a little restaurant and bar on the corner. 

John muttered something about getting a pint, wandering off and aiming a smile at the bar tender wearing a very tight strappy top. Y/N chuckled at his flirty antics, but Sherlock’s gaze was glued to something out the window as the pair sat down.

“22 Northumberland St. Keep your eyes on it.” Sherlock instructed. 

“Do you think he’ll try to go inside? He must be smarter than that.”

“He has killed four people.” Sherlock reminded. 

A large man with a beard and ponytail came over to the table with a large smile. He placed two menus down and shook the detective’s hand. 

“Sherlock,” He greeted warmly. “Anything you want off the menu free. On the house for you and your date.” 

Y/N looked up in surprise and blushed. “I’m not his-we aren’t-” 

Sherlock seem utterly unphased by the mistake, not bothering to correct his friend. “Do you want to eat?” He asked her. 

“This man got me off a murder charge.” The waiter said appreciatively. 

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock introduced. “Three years ago I proved that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, he was in completely different part of town housebreaking.” Sherlock explained nonchalantly, watching 22 Northumberland for signs of activity. 

“What an interesting man you are. I’d like a cup of tea please.” Y/N said serenely, earning another stare from Sherlock.

“He cleared my name.” Angelo insisted. 

“I cleared it a bit.” Sherlock corrected. “Anything happening opposite?” 

“No, nothing. But for this man, I’d have gone to prison.” 

“You did go to prison.” 

“I’ll get a candle for the table, it’s more romantic.” Angelo said, making Y/N chuckle, not bothering to protest again. 

“You may as well eat, we may have a long wait.” Sherlock said as Angelo returned with a little candle and a thumbs up. 

“Tea is fine. There’s a mystery to be solved, Sherlock. It’s much too exciting to eat!” She said with large smile. 

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back at the force of her enthusiasm. She was...unexpected, and he was still trying to figure Y/N Hudson out. All attempts had so far failed. 

“Everything does become dull in comparison.” Sherlock said. 

“Even people? Friends, family, girlfriends, boyfriends?” Y/N inquired, watching him. 

“As I said, dull.” 

“So no girlfriend?” Y/N asked, looking over to John and the bartender flirting. 

“No, not really my area.” He stated, making Y/N smile good naturedly.

“Boyfriend?” 

“No.” 

Y/N nodded, turning her gaze to the house across the street. She said nothing else, but she could feel Sherlock watching her. He’d been doing that a lot since the crime scene earlier that night. 

Y/N’s phone rang, an unknown number flashing across the screen. With little thought, she silenced it and slid the mobile into her pocket. Her eyes widened as she noticed a taxi across the street. 

“Sherlock, that cab. It’s stopped outside 22 Northumberland.” 

“Nobody getting in, nobody getting out...Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever?” Sherlock said to himself. 

“The murderer.” Y/N whispered. 

“Don’t stare.” Sherlock said. 

Y/N smiled, getting up and putting her coat on. “You’re right, we shouldn’t both stare.” 

Sherlock stood as well, keeping his continued amazement at her in check. Without another word they left the restaurant. The man in the taxi looked back and them before the vehicle pulled away. Sherlock sprinted after it, only to have to slide across the hood of a car that nearly ran him over. 

“I got the license plate.” Y/N said. 

“Good for you.” Sherlock said, placing his fingers on his temples and speaking to himself.

He was off and running again, with Y/N following closely behind. They ran through a back alley, up a flight of stairs, then another flight of stairs, and made it onto a rooftop. From there, they jumped over a balcony to another roof and then another. On the third jump, Y/N looked down. 

It was long drop to unforgiving cement. She felt slightly nauseous and began to lose her courage. She’d never really been a fan of heights. 

“Y/N, come on! We’re losing him!” Sherlock shouted. “I’ll catch you!” He added, trying to reassure her. 

The young woman steeled herself and lept over the open space. She felt the impact in her knees but didn’t topple over. Sherlock had his hands on her shoulders to steady her. She just smiled. 

“Go!” 

They were off again. After descending another flight of stairs and navigating several alleys and streets, the tall detective dashed in front of the taxi. 

“Police! Open her up!” He shouted. 

The door opened, Sherlock took one look at the man in the backseat and sighed in frustration. 

“Tan, teeth, what, Californian? LA, Santa Monica, just arrived.” Sherlock deduced, out of breath. 

“Are you guys the police?” The man asked in confusion. 

Y/N nudged Sherlock away and gave an apologetic smile. “Welcome to London. Any problems, please let us know.” 

Y/N followed Sherlock and grabbed the badge from his hand. “Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Yeah, I pickpocket him when he’s annoying.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “You can keep that one, I have plenty.” 

Y/N looked at it for a moment before bursting into laughter. They spotted the man in the cab speaking to a different police officer. 

“Got your breath back?” Sherlock asked with a smile. 

~

“Where on earth had you two gone?” John asked as the three of you returned to Baker Street. 

“Solving a mystery.” Sherlock replied, sending Y/N a wink. 

Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her coat. The caller was unknown again. Y/N muted it and returned it to her pocket. 

“I ran all over looking for you!” John protested, indignant. 

“To prove a point.” Sherlock said. 

“About what?” 

“You. Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock called. “Dr. Watson will be taking the room upstairs!” 

“Says who?” John asked. 

Fully aware of Sherlock’s scheme, Y/N smiled. “Says the man at the door.” 

On queue, a knock sounded. John, intrigued, walked over and opened it, receiving his cane from Angelo. Y/N and Sherlock shared a look, laughing a little. Y/N’s smile died as her mother appeared looking distressed. 

“Sherlock what have you done?” Mrs. Hudson asked tearfully. 

“Mum? What is it?” Y/N asked, moving to her mother. 

“Upstairs.” 

The boys rushed up to their flat, but Y/N stayed behind, ushering her mother into 221A to calm her down. Her phone rang again with yet another unknown caller. She grimaced as she declined the call for a third time. 

“You alright?” Y/N asked once they’d sat in the kitchen.

“You’re sweet, muffin. I was just a bit startled. They came in so official and there were so many-” 

“Who?” Y/N asked. 

“The police! I think one of them is your friend, the detective inspector. Oh, what’s his name? Lewis? Lawrence?” 

“Lestrade.” Y/N supplied. “Why are they here?” 

“Drugs bust, they said.” Mrs. Hudson said as her daughter poured her a cup of tea. 

“Drugs bust? What-” Y/N stopped as she recalled bits of gossip she’d heard Anderson and Donovan saying many weeks before. “Oh.” 

Y/N rose, ready to rush up the stairs and plead Sherlock’s case to Lestrade. Her progress was halted at the ringing of her mother’s landline. The same ruddy unknown caller. This time, Y/N picked up, frustrated. 

“Hello, who is-” 

“Miss. Hudson, every letter your mother ever sent you are held in the lower left hand drawer of your desk.” A calm, posh voice spoke over the phone.

“Who the hell-” 

“The missive from Friday, April the twenty-first 2005 is especially riveting. There is a car waiting outside for you.” The voice said before the call ended. 

“....Mum? I-I’ve got to go. I’ll see you later, yeah?” Y/N said, slipping out the front door. 

A sleek black car was parked directly in front of 221. Y/N took a deep breath and opened the back door before sliding into the seat. A woman around her age sat in the other seat, eyes glued to her phone as she typed away at it. 

“Evening Miss. Hudson.” She said as the car pulled away. Y/N noticed a taxi taking the car’s place as they drove. 

“You know my name, might I know yours?” Y/N asked, watching the buildings pass by out the window. 

“Anthea.” The other woman said. 

Y/N nodded, focussing on keeping her nerves at bay. After about twenty minutes, the car pulled to a stop at an abandoned pier. The door was opened by a man in a dark suit. Several feet in front of the car, a man in an expensive looking suit was waiting in front of an empty chair. He had an air of power about him and carried an umbrella. 

“Good morning, Y/N.” He said, and then gestured to the chair. “Have a seat.”  

Numbly, Y/N realized that it was in fact the early morning at that point. The man had a seemingly nonthreatening smile on his face, but Y/N was by no means put at ease. Y/N didn’t move. 

“I generally answer the phone when I can see the number you know.” She said. 

“With the intention of avoiding attention from Sherlock Holmes, certain measures must be taken.” The man said. “You’ve been running about all day. Surely you’re tired. Sit.” 

Y/N sat, but perched on the edge of the chair ready to spring up if necessary. The man looked down at her and tilted his head. 

“Intelligent choice. It would seem to be more than just mother’s love when she calls you clever.” He spoke calmly. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” 

“He works in the same place that I do.” She said simply. 

“You neglect the fact that he lives in a building owned by your mother. A place you frequently visit.” He corrected.

She studied him, finding something familiar in the way he held himself and spoke. “I visit to see my mother. Why should I have a connection with Sherlock Holmes? He’s barely spoken to me.” 

“Until today. Today you were running around the streets chasing a murderer. I do believe you jumped across a roof for him. Should I be expecting a third inhabitant of 221B by the end of the week? Perhaps a happy announcement?” 

Y/N betrayed no emotion on her face. “Why this fascination with Mr. Holmes.” 

A slight flinch at the formal name didn’t escape her notice. “I’m the closest thing to a friend he is capable of having.” 

“Oh? And what would that be?” She asked, a suspicion of the man’s family connection growing. 

“An enemy. He might even say his archenemy.” He replied, a twinkle in his eye. 

Y/N’s phone chimed with a text. It was from John. 

_ Call me. _

“I do hope I’m not interrupting.” 

“Not at all.” Y/N said smoothly.

“If you intend to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes, I would be more than happy to pay you a substantial sum of money on a regular basis.” He offered. 

She gave a short laugh. “For what?” 

“Information. I’d just like to know what he’s up to. Nothing intimate or uncomfortable.” 

“Why?” 

“I worry. I would prefer to keep the knowledge of my concern between us. He and have a...complicated relationship.” 

Her phone buzzed again.  _ Call me now! Sherlock is in danger.  _

“I’ll consider it.” She said. 

“I don’t like to wait, Y/N.” He said. 

“I don’t like to get in the middle of sibling rivalry.” She countered. 

He looked dumbstruck for moment before composing himself. “Very clever indeed. I will ask for your answer in 24 hours.” He conceded with an impressed smile. “I do hope you’ll agree.”

The man walked away and Anthea came over from the car, saying she would being taking Y/N home. As Y/N opened the car door, her phone rang. It was John. 

“John.”

“Finally! I’ve been trying to get a hold of Lestrade, but I can’t. You need to get to 77 Center Road.” John said hurriedly. 

She relayed the address to the driver. “Why? John what happened?”

“‘Rachel’ was the password to the phone. Jennifer Wilson had planted it on the murderer. We tracked the phone and it was in the flat. The murderer came to Baker Street and Sherlock left in a taxi. No one saw the guy. I’ve tracked the phone to the address I gave you and I’m on my way.” John explained. 

Y/N mind whirled as she puzzled through the information. “The taxi! Of course. I’m on my way there now, John. I’ll try to get in touch with Lestrade in the meantime.” 

She hung up with the doctor and immediately called the DCI. He picked up on the fourth ring. Y/N relayed the shortest version of the story she could. He hung up with the promise of being there with backup as soon as possible. 

Within the next minute or so the car pulled up to two buildings. They were foreclosed medical facilities. Y/N saw an empty taxi, but no John or Sherlock in sight. Taking a chance, she chose the building to her left, sprinting to the doors and going inside. 

Moving as fast as she could, she searched each floor before she heard a gunshot. Heart pounding in panic, she rushed to the top floor. Sherlock stood over the body of an older man. 

“Sherlock!” She yelled, rushing over to him. 

“Y/N.” He said. 

“Are you alright? What happened?” She asked, moving closer and looking him over for injury. 

“I’m fine.” He assured. “Someone shot him through the window-”

The sound of sirens cut him off. Y/N didn’t get to hear any other explanation as the commotion of officers and paramedics swarmed them. Eventually Y/N stood next to Sherlock as he sat wrapped in a ridiculous orange blanket. Having had a look at the scene, Lestrade came over to speak with them. 

“Why have I got this blanket?” Sherlock protested. 

“It’s for shock.” Y/N teased, earning a half-hearted glare. 

“So the shooter, no sign of him?” Sherlock asked. 

“Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would’ve been enemies I suppose. Could have been following him, but I’ve got nothing to go on.” 

“Oh I wouldn’t say that.” Sherlock said confidently. 

Fairly certain of who the shooter was, Y/N tried to steer them away from the conversation. “Sherlock, don’t-”

“No, I want to hear it,” Lestrade overruled. 

“The bullet they dug out was from a handgun. A killshot over that distance with that kind  of weapon requires a marksman. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn’t shake. You’re looking for a man with a history of military service...nerves of steel…” Sherlock trailed off. 

Y/N could see that he’s worked it out. After some half-baked excuse to Lestrade, Sherlock was off to speak with John. Y/N said goodnight to Lestrade before following her tall detective. 

“Are you alright?” She asked John.

“Yes of course I’m alright.” He said. 

“You have just killed a man.” Sherlock reasoned. 

“That’s true. But he wasn’t a very nice man. Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie.” John said, making Y/N laugh. 

Sherlock began to walk again. “That’s true he was an awful cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here.” 

John and Y/N laughed, before shushing each other. “It’s a crime scene! We can’t laugh.” She giggled. 

“You were going to take that damn pill weren’t you?” 

“No, I was biding my time. I knew you’d show up.” Sherlock lied. 

“Do you always risk your life to prove you’re clever?” Y/N asked. 

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock asked. 

“‘Cause you’re an idiot.” John said. 

Sherlock looked to the two of them. “Dinner?” 

“Oh, yes please.” Y/N said. 

“At the end of Baker Street there’s a good Chinese place that stays open till two.” Sherlock said.

John faltered, but Y/N wasn’t unsurprised at the sight of Sherlock’s “archenemy” getting out of a car ahead of them. 

“Sherlock, that’s him. That’s the man.” 

“I know exactly who that is.” Sherlock said. 

“So another case cracked. Very public spirited. But that’s never your motivation is it?” The man pondered. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I’m concerned about you. Did it never occur to you that we belong on the same side?” The man asked. 

“Oddly enough, no.” Sherlock replied sassily. 

“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish.” 

“Has it been going since you were children? I can’t imagine your parents were happy with it.” Y/N cut in with an arched brow. 

The man smirked, and Sherlock fixed her with another one of his impressed stares. John was stunned into silence. 

“It was never me that upset her, Mycroft.” Sherlock said. 

“Wait no.” John sputtered. “Your parents?”

“Yes, our parents.” Sherlock said. “This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?” Sherlock spat.

“Losing it, in fact.” Mycroft responded with less venom. 

“He’s your brother?”

“Of course he’s my brother. She figured it out.” Sherlock reasoned. 

“He’s not-I dunno, a criminal mastermind.” John said. 

“For goodness sake! I occupy a minor position in the British government.” Mycroft argued. 

“He is the British government when he’s not too busy being the British secret service or the CIA on a freelance basis.” Sherlock said sarcastically. “Good evening Mycroft. Do try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does to the traffic.” 

Sherlock and John were off, but Y/N stayed for a word with Mycroft. “I’ve given it some thought, and my answer is no.” 

“Too bad, I think we would work well together, Y/N Hudson.” Mycroft said. 

“Perhaps in something that isn’t spying on your brother, Mr. Holmes.” She said before catching up with John and Sherlock. 

“Moriarty.” Sherlock said. 

“What’s that?” John asked. 

“Absolutely no idea.” Sherlock admitted as the three walked off into the London night. 


	3. Experiments and Spies

“Right, click the picture of the gear.” Y/N directed as her mother peered at her phone. “Okay, now scroll down...there. Click on text and display.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed, pushing the device into her daughter’s hand. “Oh, I don’t even remember why I bought this silly thing.” 

Less than a minute later, the text size on Mrs. Hudson’s phone was at its largest setting. Mrs. Hudson grinned and pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. 

“My little muffin is a technological genius!” 

A scoff drew both women’s attention. “Hardly. She’s proficient at chemistry, I suppose. Saying that she’s a ‘technological genius’ is just a lie, Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Well hello to you too, Sherlock.” Y/N greeted. 

“Upstairs. Now.” Sherlock replied, turning on his heel and walking to the stairs. 

Curiosity won over her annoyance at his demands. Y/N made sure her mother’s phone was all set before following the tall detective into 221B. 

He was in the kitchen, stirring an alarmingly orange mixture in a souvenir mug. The table was covered in beakers, petri dishes, a microscope, and multiple books. It looked like a STEM program exploded all over the room. Y/N crossed her arms and observed from the doorway. 

“Hold this.” Sherlock shoved the mug into her hands.

“May I ask why you’re mixing orange soda, baby powder, and,” Y/N grimaced into the cup. “some kind of meat together?” 

“It’s an experiment.” He replied simply. 

“I’m never one to turn down an experiment. What, pray tell, are we testing?” Y/N asked. 

Sherlock studied her for a moment. He walked over to her and stood close, tracing her face with his gaze. 

“The effect of possible corrosive elements on mammal flesh.” He explained, taking the cup back from her. 

“Diverting. Have you read an article about this very topic by my former professor, Oliver Keets? It was published a few years ago in Forensics Monthly.” Y/N said, wandering farther into the makeshift lab and inspecting Sherlock’s samples. 

“I am modifying a few of his designs, yes.” Sherlock acted unfazed by the display of knowledge. 

“Lovely. Are we both going to stand here and continue to pretend you actually needed me to act as a human cup holder or are you going to admit you want to know more about me?” Y/N asked point blank. 

Sherlock returned her stare before a smile broke out across his features. “The curiosity must be mutual then, Y/N. Who else would willingly follow a psychopath without explanation?” 

“Highly functioning sociopath. I would have thought you read up on your definitions, Mr. Holmes.” She teased. 

They stood there for a moment in silence, challenging one another with just their gazes. The stand-off was broken when Dr. Watson’s footsteps sounded on the staircase. John gave a start at seeing Y/N.

“Y/N...what are you-?” 

“Experiment.” Sherlock waved off. 

“Concluded experiment.” Y/N corrected. 

She walked over and gave John a hug. “How have you been?”

“Alright.” He replied. “Yourself?” 

“A bit busy, I’ll admit. Anderson,” They heard Sherlock scoff at the name. “Has me back on little cases. There are quite a lot of those I’m afraid.” 

“Surely Lestrade can pull some strings.” John suggested. 

“There haven’t been any particularly difficult cases, so there’s no point in pissing Philip off, really. Hopefully I’ll have another chance to show my expertise on the next big case.” 

John nodded in agreement. A loud crashing noise from the kitchen/lab signified her cue to leave. 

“I should be getting back to the yard now. I only have an hour for lunch and I just came over to visit mum.” Y/N excused herself. 

~

“Isn’t he just brilliant?” Molly asked, gazing dreamily into her coffee. 

“Molly,” Y/N reasoned with her friend. “Brilliant he may be, but he is all too aware of his own capabilities. It makes him treat you like a doormat. You’re just going to get hurt.” 

“But he’s so...handsome.” Molly argued. 

Y/N shrugged, unable to deny the truth of that statement. 

“Let’s talk about something else, yeah? How is work coming along?” Y/N asked. 

“It can be a bit of a deadweight sometimes.” Molly said before giving a sort of snort/giggle. 

Y/N laughed. “I’m glad you’re able to bring a sense of humor to the job.” 

Molly nodded. “I really do appreciate our lunches though, Y/N. I’m glad to have you around to talk to now. I was really rather lonely before.” 

Y/N reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand. “I’m happy to have made a friend as well. It has been so wonderful to have both you and Lestrade to help me navigate my newness here.” 

“And Sherlock.” Molly grumbled. “He seems to have taken quite the interest in you.” 

Y/N sighed. “Molly...he’s just competitive because I’m smarter than him.” 

They both laughed at that. Y/N could tell Molly was still a little jealous though by the way she was glaring at her napkin as though it had wounded her. 

“Sherlock doesn’t deserve you, Molly. He’s too...absent. You’d never be happy. I think you need someone better.” 

“You’re probably right…” Molly admitted. 

“When you’re ready, I might have someone in mind. He’s a lot like Sherlock, but in a more Molly-compatible way. He lives down the hall from me. When you’ve gotten over Sherlock I can set you guys up.” Y/N offered. 

“Thank you, Y/N. What’s his name?” Molly asked, still not convinced. 

“Tom.”

~

Y/N was curled up on the couch, taking advantage of her small amount of free time for a little Netflix. The movie was just reaching an intense climactic scene when her phone buzzed. The number was shown, but wasn’t listed as a contact on her phone. 

_ Come outside. _

She rolled her eyes before typing out a response. 

_ Are you always this dramatic? _

The phone buzzed again almost immediately. 

_ She dies in a car crash at the end. Come outside.  _

Y/N groaned, but got up and put on her shoes. She trudged down the stairs and flung open the front door to the building her flat was in. 

“What, Mycroft?” She demanded.

“I have made an amendment to my original offer. I will now only pay you if you want in exchange for you keeping an eye on him, and informing me of any imminent danger.” Mycroft said. 

Y/N held a hand to her heart. “Oh how sweet! I love the brotherly affection.” 

Mycroft frowned. “I would also like to treat you to a meal every once in awhile to discuss any matter that you find pressing. No need to reveal any detail you feel uncomfortable with, of course.” 

Y/N thought for a moment. “Deal. Any money you would have paid me has to go the homeless, or a charity though.” 

Mycroft smiled as they shook hands. After he disappeared in his shiny black car, Y/N put his number in her phone under ‘Spycroft.’


	4. The Blind Banker Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A banker...who is blind?? My, my, I do believe mysteries and friendship and thrilling adventure do await our lovely heroes when Y/N receives a text from everyone's favorite highly functioning sociopath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM BACK!!!!! 
> 
> It has been almost a year (ah shit), and I'm so pleased to be able to bring you lovely people the rest of this story!   
> (sorry for the long hiatus) 
> 
> I will try my best to update every Wednesday (possibly more often if I'm feeling especially benevolent) from now on. I have the whole thing mapped out and I'm raring to go, so I hope you enjoy what I have in store!

The white walled lab in the basement of New Scotland Yard was quiet. Anderson was away “at lunch” for several hours, taking his incessant yammering with him. 

Y/N hummed an old love song to herself as she placed several blood samples into the centrifuge. She carefully closed the lid and turned on the machine. She sang a few lyrics aloud and slid into her rolling desk chair, her momentum making the chair spin a few times, earning a few smiles from Dana, who worked at the station next to her. The other forensic scientists were used to the occasional absent-minded musical outburst by Y/N and found it rather endearing. 

Luckily for London, but unluckily for Y/N’s brain, there had been very few big cases in the past several weeks. She was left in the middle of the pack once more, solving robbery, arson, assault, and even some murders at a steady pace, only slowed down by her thorough nature when writing reports and the petty meddling of Anderson in an attempt to keep her from taking his job. 

Y/N sighed, stretching out her legs and leaned backward, letting the tension out of her back and shoulders for a moment as she looked up at the ceiling. Her mobile buzzed on the desk next to her.

The text read:  _ 405 Black Prince Road. _

_ Hello, Sherlock. I’m doing great, thanks for asking. How are you?  _ She typed in return. 

_ Significantly less bored than you.  _

_ And less employed. I do have a job you know.  _

_ See you soon.  _ He replied . She smiled.

Y/N traded her lab coat for her deep red peacoat. She swooped out the door, calling something about a lunch break over her shoulder. 

As the double doors of the lab swung back and forth and Y/N walked farther down the hallway, a forgotten centrifuge beeped in the corner to signify the end of its test. 

After a quick taxi ride across Westminster Bridge into Lambeth, Y/N joined John and Sherlock outside of an apartment building. 

“Hello Y/N,” John greeted flatly. “You’ve come just in time to sit here and wait.” 

“Wait for what exactly?” She asked, looking between her two friends. 

“Van Coon.” Sherlock said distractedly, looking over the name cards next to the apartment buzzers. 

“Van who now?”

“There was a break in at the bank.” Sherlock snapped the ‘k.’ “Whomever it was got in without opening any doors and left a message for Edward Van Coon in under a minute. Any idea what this means?” He shoved his phone towards her, photos of yellow spray paint on a wall and a portrait. 

“I think it’s Chinese, but I’m sorry to say I can’t tell you more than that.” Y/N offered. 

“Sherlock, should we just come back later?” John inquired, rocking backward on his heel impatiently. 

“Just moved in.” Sherlock said. 

“What?” 

“The floor above― new label.” 

Y/N noted the shine on the name tag labeled “Wintle.” 

“Could’ve just replaced it.” John suggested. 

“No one does that.” Y/N pointed out. 

Sherlock pressed the buzzer with his gloved finger. 

“Hello?” The slightly tinny voice of a woman answered. 

Sherlock plastered on a smile and leaned forward, as if the woman could see him. “Hi!” He said cheerfully. “Erm, I live in the flat just below you. I don’t think we’ve met.” 

“No, well I’ve just moved in.” 

“Actually, I’ve just locked my keys in my flat.” He pinched his eyebrows together, bit his lip, and bounced a bit as if feeling anxious. 

“Do you want me to buzz you in?” 

“Yeah.” He dropped the character. “And can I use your balcony?”

Y/N suppressed a giggle at the utterly un-Sherlock manner in which he had been speaking. She thought to herself how odd it was that she liked this personable persona of his much less than the usual keen and serious Sherlock she was coming to know. 

Y/N went with Sherlock to help convince Ms. Wintle into letting them use her balcony while John waited outside Van Coon’s apartment. Y/N was all in favor until she actually stood on the balcony looking down four stories at the hard pavement below. 

Sherlock wordlessly heaved himself over the railing and jumped down one level to the next balcony. 

“Sherlock, what is it about you and leaping across tall buildings?” She said, humor unable to mask the fear in her voice. 

Sherlock looked up at her, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards slightly. 

“Oh come on Y/N, hurry up and jump.” He said, peering into the apartment. “I’ll catch you.” He added as an afterthought, looking back up. 

“Fine.” Y/N grumbled, tentatively perching on the railing and picking her legs up over the side. With a deep breath, she pushed herself off and fell. 

She landed on the balcony, a pair of gloved hands grasping her shoulders securely. Her toe caught and she stumbled forward, face planting into Sherlock’s coat. It was warm and surprisingly soft for the sharp nature of its owner. Y/N fought the urge to snuggle and stood upright, getting her bearings. 

They found the balcony door unlocked and proceeded into Van Coon’s home. Y/N felt a heavy unease at the stillness of the apartment. It occurred to her that she, an employee of the police department, was helping Sherlock commit a crime. 

Too late now, she thought, remembering the terrifying view from the balcony. 

Resigned to the situation, Y/N focussed on observing and assessing the apartment. She could tell that Van Coon was left-handed, the placement of an end-table and the electrical sockets were clear enough. There were a few books stacked by the telly that revealed an interest in mystery adventures and antiques. His fridge was full of champagne, which made Y/N cringe. 

There was a buzz at the front door. “Sherlock?” John called. 

Y/N stepped ahead of the tall detective to inspect the double doors which presumably led to the bedroom. 

“Sherlock, Y/N? You okay?” 

Sherlock followed at her heels, ignoring John’s calls. 

“Yeah, anytime you feel like letting me in?” The doctor tried again.

They looked at each other for a moment before driving their shoulders into the door, opening them inward with a crunch. Sherlock went round the bend before her, longer legs propelling him faster to the big reveal. He stopped barely two steps inside the room, and Y/N nearly hit his shoulder with her own. 

She drew in a sharp breath at the sight before her. 

Edward Van Coon lay dead, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling above him. Y/N let out her breath slowly. In her line of work, she saw a lot of death, but she had yet to be rid of the throat tightening, stomach churning sadness of seeing another life gone.

“Y/N! Sherlock! What the bloody hell is going on in there?!” John’s yell through the door startled her. 

Y/N placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, stopping him as he stepped closer to the body. He turned his head and met her gaze with his clinical blue stare. 

“Don’t touch anything yet.” She ordered. “Go let John in while I phone the Yard.” 

Within five minutes, several of her colleagues were assembled in the apartment, following Y/N’s orders to collect evidence and photographs of the crime scene. Whilst waiting for a detective to arrive, Y/N and Sherlock donned plastic gloves and took at look at the body. 

Van Coon’s three piece suit and red paisley tie were relatively untouched, and there was little blood splatter on the bed or wall next to it. He had been shot in the right side of his head recently, based on skin pallor and lack of odor in the room. 

“Do you think he lost a lot of money? I mean, suicide is pretty common among city boys.” John suggested, standing next to Sherlock. 

“We don’t know that it was suicide.” Sherlock pointed out, moving to look at an open suitcase by the bed. 

“Come on, the door was locked from the inside! You’d have to climb down the balcony.” John argued. 

“Not impossible.” Y/N pointed out, examining the handgun left on the bed. There was one bullet missing.

Sherlock spoke from his spot on the floor. “Been away three days, judging by the laundry.” At the lack of response, he stood and looked indignantly at John. “Look at the case! There was something tightly packed inside it.” 

John replied archly: “No thanks, I’ll take your word for it.” 

“Problem?” Sherlock asked curiously. 

“Yeah I’m not really interested in rooting through some bloke’s dirty underwear.” John explained. Y/N huffed amusedly. 

Sherlock looked at her for a moment before walking over, thinking aloud. “Those symbols at the bank: the graffiti, why were they put there?” 

“It’s a code.” Y/N offered. 

“But why were they painted? Want to communicate, why not use email?” Sherlock mused. He rummaged through the pockets of Van Coon’s jacket, looking for something. 

“Well maybe he wasn’t answering.” John said flatly. 

“Oh good, you follow.” Sherlock exclaimed sarcastically. Y/N hit him lightly on the arm. 

“Be patient.” She ordered. “What kind of message would everyone try to avoid?” Y/N suggested. John only looked more perplexed. 

Sherlock kept searching the body as he spoke. “What about this morning. Those letters you were looking at.” 

“Bills.” John supplied, not following. 

Catching on to what Sherlock was searching for, Y/N pushed him gently out of her way and opened Van Coon’s mouth, pulling out a small black origami flower. 

“He was being threatened.” She concluded. 

Her mind was filled with stray puzzle pieces. As Sherlock met her gaze she could see that they were both trying to connect the dots. He started to speak when a man walked in, loudly giving orders. Sherlock moved the fastest to the door, reaching out to shake hands with the newcomer. 

“Sergeant, we haven’t met.” He stated by way of greeting. 

The man didn't accept the handshake, instead placing both hands on his hips in an attempt to project superiority. “Yeah, I know who you are and I’d prefer it if you didn’t tamper with any of the evidence.” 

Y/N moved in front of Sherlock, donning a gentle charming smile. “Good to see you again Detective Inspector Dimmock.” She sent a look to Sherlock before handing him the evidence bags. 

“I didn’t know you were working this case, Y/N.” He crossed his arms and frowned.

“I’m doing a little unofficial investigating today, offering my forensic expertise to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.” She said nonchalantly, waving a hand like she was waving away any doubt of their presence at the crime scene. 

Dimmock didn’t reply, but swept out of the room and got on with the investigation.

“We’re obviously looking at a suicide.” He began. 

Y/N rolled her eyes, amazed at his lack of observation and intuition. Sherlock gave her look as if to say “this guy is a DCI?”

“It does seem the only explanation of the facts.” John agreed. 

Y/N noticed the tell-tale gleam in Sherlock’s eye that meant he knew better and was just waiting to prove the others wrong. Surprisingly, he looked to her first, checking to see if she wanted to be the smug genius this time. She was touched by the consideration, but gestured for him to go ahead with a bright smile. 

“Wrong,” He began. “It’s one possible explanation for some of the facts. You’ve got a solution that you like but you’re ignoring everything you see that doesn’t comply with it.” 

Y/N stepped back and enjoyed the show as Sherlock schooled Dimmock. He laid out every tiny evidence of Van Coon’s left-handedness with a smidgen of sass mixed in with all of his intelligence. In accordance with her own deductions, Sherlock announced that Van Coon had been murdered by someone who broke into the apartment. Dimmock tried to protest, but was shut down once more as Sherlock explained the threat to Van Coon and how he waited for his demise inside the room, firing the bullet through the open window. Y/N knew that her ballistics report would confirm that the bullet in Van Coon’s head was not from his gun. 

“If the door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?” Dimmock asked as Sherlock and John prepared to leave. 

“Good,” Sherlock sent a smile to Y/N before addressing Dimmock. “You’re finally asking the right questions.” 

With that, he swooped dramatically out of the apartment, coat flowing behind him. John made a more awkward exit, pausing to hug Y/N and give a little wave to Dimmock. 

Y/N clapped her hands. “My lunch break ended about five minutes ago. Shall we get to work?” 

~

Sherlock sat in his chair, staring at the wall in front of him with his fingers steepled under his chin. He’d been there for several hours. John had left and Mrs. Hudson had come and dropped off some tea and biscuits, carrying on a one-sided conversation without any clue that he was in his mind palace. 

He sat. He thought. 

Then his phone buzzed, emitting a soft piano chord. Y/N had texted him.

Sherlock turned his head to look at the device where it lay on John’s desk. The text was nothing more than a link to an online news outlet. The headline read, “Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police.” 

A second text followed with the same gentle chime. 

_ Talk to Dimmock.  _

~

Y/N spun around in her desk chair, focussing on one point on the ceiling as she went around and around. The world around her faded as she dove into the depths of her mind. The details of her daily cases were stored away in the recesses of her brain with their boring cut and dry simplicity. 

At the forefront of Y/N’s thoughts was the name “Moriarty.” 

With the help of case files, and conversations with Sherlock, Y/N was familiar with the story of Jeff Hope, the taxi driving serial killer. His last word was the name of his “sponsor,” Moriarty. 

Was Moriarty a single person? An organization of criminals? How did they choose whom they were going to sponsor? Did this Moriarty tell Hope how to kill his victims or just let him do as he would with the promise of money? 

Y/N stopped the motion of her chair and snatched the case file from her desk. Hope’s children, in the custody of his estranged wife might provide some much needed answers. Y/N committed the address in the file to memory before grabbing her red coat and sweeping out of the lab. 

Dana turned to a lab technician called Matt. “What do you think? Two months before she leaves to be a detective?”   

Matt chuckled. “Less, if Mr. Holmes has any say in the matter.” 

 

A twenty minute tube ride and four bus stops later, Y/N walked up the front walk of the Hope Family’s home. It was a two story brick building, snug enough with its neighbors that it was only distinguished as a separate structure by the difference in color from the white houses on either side. A trash bin and a recycling bin sat just behind the front gate like broad shouldered guards. 

Y/N knocked on the white front door, avoiding the parts where the paint was peeling. After a moment or two, a teenage girl opened the door. Y/N could see that she was about seventeen or eighteen and itching to leave home. She wore a short Manchester United shirt and ripped jeans. Her hair was cut choppy and fell into her eyes in such a way that she was constantly twitching her head to the side in an attempt to flick her fringe out of her eyes. 

“Samantha Hope?” Y/N asked. 

“Yeah, what do you want?” She replied, as though painfully bored. 

Y/N pulled out her badge. “My name is Y/N Hudson, I work at Scotland Yard. I was one of the...investigators on the case involving your father. Would it be alright if I asked you a few extra questions? It may help me with a current case.” Y/N said, shifting her weight to her left hip and hanging her head slightly so she mirrored Samantha’s body language.

“Sure, whatever.” Samantha agreed with artificial nonchalance. 

Y/N; however, could see clearly the sadness and exhaustion in the young girl’s body and eyes. “Is your mother home?” Y/N asked. 

“No, my brother Nicky has a doctor’s appointment.”

“I see.” 

They sat in the small and shabby sitting room with Samantha on the couch and Y/N in a chair next to it. 

“Were you close with your dad, Samantha?” Y/N began. 

“I guess so. I mean, when I was little and stupid, he was like some kind of hero or something.” Samantha was still guarded and tense. 

“My dad was the same to me when I was little. Sometimes it’s hard when parents suddenly become real people.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Did you ever see him after he left?” Y/N asked. 

“Mum didn’t want him to come round anymore.” The bitterness was clear in her tone.

“So there was no communication at all?” 

“Well,” Samantha complied, “he would come to see me at school. Said he was going to help me no matter what or something like that the first time. After that he’d drop by occasionally and give me money for me and my brother.” 

“Did that strike you as odd?” Y/N inquired. 

“Well, yeah, of course. But at the same time I have cash saved for college now and I could help feed my little brother.” 

“Did he ever tell you where the money came from?” 

“No, but the-” Samantha took a breath, “the last time I, erm, the last time he came to see me he didn’t have as much as before and said something about cheap customers or something. A little while later his mobile rang. There was an angry man on the other end. I could hear him yelling through the phone. He sounded young, and almost like he was singing everything when he wasn’t yelling. The voice was kind of beautiful, actually. My dad kept calling him ‘sir,’ and seemed really bloody frightened. He made some excuse after hanging up and then left.” 

“Did he ever say what the man’s name was, or how he knew him?” Y/N asked. 

“I never got the name, but when he hung up, Dad called the man ‘boss.’” Samantha elaborated. 

There was a silent pause as Y/N thought through what had just been revealed. 

“Well, thank you very much Samantha. You’ve been very helpful. I’m terribly sorry about dragging all of this up again for you. If you ever need anything, feel free to contact me.” Y/N said, handing the girl her her card and taking her leave. 

The whole trip back to her flat, Y/N stared at a single point on the tube map on the wall across from her and was consumed by her thoughts. 

Y/N knew that Moriarty was an angry, rich man with a melodic voice. He communicated by the phone and seemed to like efficiency in committing crimes. 

Y/N didn’t know how to find him. She didn’t know why he sponsored criminals. She didn’t know if she should tell Sherlock what she’d found as he was in the midst of a new case. 

She thought and considered all of her thoughts right up until falling into bed when those thoughts melted into dreams of balconies and brick houses and mysteries to be solved. 

~

Sitting in the cafeteria at St. Barts, Y/n wrapped her hands around a mug of rather weak tea, chatting amiably with Molly Hooper. 

“How’s work? Keeping you entertained?” 

“Not as much as I’d like. Most days are fairly simple, and I prefer a challenge.” Y/N sighed. 

“You are so much like Sherlock, and yet so different.” Molly mused. 

“I suppose so, yes. Are you still interested in him, Mol?” Y/N asked teasingly. 

“Oh no, not really. I’ve actually just met the cutest guy from IT. His name is Jim. I think he likes me!” Molly exclaimed. 

“Well who wouldn’t? Good for you, darling!” Y/N praised with a smile. 

“My very own office romance.” Molly said with a grin. 

The two friends laughed a talked for a good while longer before a chime of Y/N’s phone interrupted. 

_ 48 Gerrard St.  _

“Who is that?” Molly looked over Y/N’s shoulder curiously. 

“Sherlock.”  

_ Connection between Lukis and Van Coon?  _ She asked. 

_ Both visited same shop on the days they were killed. Van Coon left something there.  _

_ See you in 20. _ She typed in reply. 

“Sorry Molly, but I’ve got to go. I’ll see you on Saturday.” 

Molly looked disappointed, but smiled anyway. “Yes, of course!” 

“I expect to hear more about this Jim from IT, okay?”

Molly laughed sheepishly. “I hope I’ll have more to tell.” 

“Good.” 

The two friends kissed each other on both cheeks in farewell. Y/N walked briskly out of St. Bart’s, the low heels of her boots tapping on the tile floor with each step. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Burning questions? Stories about how you've been in my absence? Please comment while you wait for the next chapter (arriving soon, I promise)


	5. The Blind Banker Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, actually posting an update when I say I will! 
> 
> This one is extra long because I love you all so very much. <3 Hope you like it!

It was a seven minute walk to the tube, a four minute ride to Tottenham Court, and then an eight minute walk into Chinatown. She found herself standing next to Sherlock and John with one minute to spare. Y/N was given no greetings or time to catch her breath, as Sherlock immediately entered the little shop in front of them. Y/N smiled, following right on his heels. 

The interior was low-lit, with a red tint to everything in sight. A woman in her mid to late sixties sat behind the counter. Y/N nodded to her in greeting before looking casually around the shop for anything that might have been left by Van Coon or Lukis. The woman held up a cat statue and spoke to John.

“You want Lucky Cat?” 

“No thanks…” John replied. 

“Ten pound, ten pound!” She insisted, as if it were worth a shilling. “I think your wife, she will like.” 

John just smiled and inspected some paper lanterns. Y/N tried not to giggle as she picked up an intricately painted teacup. She flipped it over to check the price and found the same symbol that was left for Van Coon. 

“Sherlock,” She called calmly, “What do you think of this?” 

He stood next to her and reached out to take the cup when he noticed what was printed on the sticker. His hand paused, grasping the dainty piece of porcelain She looked over her shoulder at him and saw his gaze go inward, thinking, deducing. Focusing on the black pupil in the center of his ice blue eyes, she began her own deductions.  

John looked up from a painted scroll, about to ask if they had found anything. The words never left his tongue as he was too perplexed by the image before him. Sherlock and Y/N were standing close together, both holding onto an upside-down teacup. The two geniuses were staring intently at each other, not saying a word. John was debating whether to give them some space or to clear his throat when Y/N moved suddenly. 

She placed the cup down and slid past Sherlock and out the door, making a beeline down the street. 

“Sherlock! Should we-” 

“Yes, Watson, let’s go.” Sherlock began explaining once they were out the door. “It’s an ancient number system. Hangzhou. These days it’s only used by street traders. Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and the library.” 

They stopped at the sight of Y/N’s red coat, stopped at a vegetable stand. She whirled round to face them, a huge grin on her face. 

“Fifteen and one. What we thought was a tag means fifteen and the blindfold means one.” She announced. 

The trio walked into a nearby restaurant for John to eat lunch and Y/N and Sherlock to deduce. In her periphery Y/N saw a woman ahead of them on the street. She wore sunglasses and seemed to be taking a picture of them with her phone. Y/N blinked and the woman was gone. 

“You coming Y/N?” John called. 

Y/N looked one last time at where the woman had been before following her friends into the building. 

John ate his food and felt a bit as though he was watching a game at Wimbledon as Y/N and Sherlock talked back and forth about the details of the case. They finally concluded that Van Coon and Lukis were smugglers and one must have stolen something. 

“The killer doesn’t know which one of them took it so he threatens them both, right.” John added. 

“Exactly.” Y/N agreed, smiling proudly at the doctor.

Sherlock, who had caught sight of something across the street, said: “Remind me, when was the last time it rained?” He left the restaurant without another word, leaving Y/N and John to follow. 

“It’s been here since Monday.” Sherlock touched a sodden copy of the “Yellow Pages” resting against an apartment door. The name card read “Soo Lin Yao.” The doorbell rang without an answer. 

Sherlock changed course, walking into the alley next to the building. 

“That flat’s been empty for at least three days.” Y/N said. 

“Could be on holiday.” John suggested. 

Sherlock looked up at the side of the flat, noticing windows, doors, peeling paint, and even the fire escape. “Do you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?” 

Without warning, Sherlock jumped up and grabbed the ladder connected to the fire-escape and climbed up. Before Y/N or John could follow, the ladder tipped up again, out of reach. 

“Sherlock!” John called, running back around to the front of the flat. 

Y/N opted to stay where she was, knowing that once the ladder stopped tipping back and forth she’d be able to grab it. 

“Someone’s been in here before me!” She heard Sherlock call. John replied from the front but Y/N couldn’t make out what he said.

The ladder began to balance itself, one end tipping down towards the ground. Y/N stepped back a bit, running a few steps and launching herself upwards, reaching for the ladder. Her fingertips grazed the bottom rung and she fell back down. 

“Dammit.” She breathed. 

She tried and missed again. And again. She was about to try a third time when she heard what sounded like a struggle in the apartment. Sherlock’s voice sounded strained as he yelled. 

The killer was in the apartment. 

Adrenaline pumping full force, Y/N looked around the alley for something to stand on and give herself more height. She was searching beside a pile of boxes when she heard a clatter on the fire-escape. Y/N caught sight of a person dressed in black as they ran past her, oblivious of her presence behind the wall of cardboard. 

She considered following for a moment, but opted to save her friend. She took one last running leap, and somehow managed to get two fingers on the bottom rung. She pulled with all her might, bringing the ladder down. In a flash she was in the apartment, looking for Sherlock. 

He lay coughing on the floor in the next room. She ran to him, pulling a piece of white cloth away from his neck, and helping him sit up. 

“Sherlock!” She supported him with one hand on his shoulder, the other hovering near his face. “Look at me. Are you okay?” 

He coughed and gasped some more, leaning on her as he dug around in the pocket of his coat. He pulled out a black origami lotus. It was identical to the one she’d found in Van Coon’s mouth. 

Sherlock saw the fear in Y/N’s eyes. He breathed as deeply as he could, wincing at the rawness of his throat, and stood. She helped him stagger a few steps before he stopped and looked at her again. 

“Don’t tell John.” He whispered hoarsely. 

~

The Black Lotus: a powerful, widespread, Chinese smuggling ring that trapped orphans into becoming “foot soldiers” who trafficked thousands of pounds worth of drugs into cities across China. Somehow they had spread to London, employing men like Van Coon and Brian Lukis to move goods back and forth. If one tried to escape the clutches of the organization or crossed them in any way, they would be targeted and eliminated. 

Y/N’s chest felt tight with empathy for Soo Lin, the young woman who escaped the smuggling world only to be followed by Zhi Zhu, the brother who was trying to kill her on behalf of the gang’s leader: General Shan. 

Y/N understood what it was like to see the inside of a criminal enterprise and how hard it was to leave, especially if that meant abandoning your family. Soo Lin seemed to sense a kindred spirit in Y/N, and looked at the CSI when she told her story. Soo Lin was about to explain how the code was based upon a book when the power in the museum switched off suddenly, making Y/N jump. 

“He is here. Zhi Zhu has found me.” Soo Lin closed her eyes tight as if willing reality away. 

Sherlock bolted, coat flapping behind him as he ran out of the restoration room. John yelled after him uselessly before following the reckless detective. Soo Lin’s breathing sped up and Y/N recognized the signs of panic on her face. Y/N moved closer and offered the young woman her hand. Soo Lin gripped it tightly. With quiet urgency, Y/N guided Soo Lin out of sight, behind one of the large workbenches. 

A gunshot rang out. Two more followed in rapid succession. 

Y/N flinched but focussed on keeping Soo Lin calm over letting any of her own worries distract her. 

Two more shots. 

Silence. 

Four more bullets flying. 

Y/N closed her eyes, willing away the images of Sherlock or John lying dead out there in the museum. 

Another two shots. 

Y/N heard the deep voice of Sherlock Holmes shouting something indiscernible. She stood up, torn by guilt for leaving Soo Lin, but also wracked by fear for the lives of her friends. 

“Stay here. Lock the door behind me. I’ll be right back.” 

Y/N sprinted from the room, dashing from column to column and display to display in case Zhi Zhu tried to shoot her too. Y/N heard nothing but the sound of her own footsteps. 

She knew she’d made a grave mistake. As she turned and started running back to the restoration room, Sherlock entered the corridor.

“Y/N. Are you alr-”

A final gunshot echoed throughout the museum. 

“No!” Y/N cursed, taking the stairs two at a time with Sherlock hot on her heels. She burst into the dark room, but stopped short in front of Soo Lin’s work station. 

Y/N covered her mouth with her hand and let out a gasping sob. Sherlock stepped past his shocked companion and picked up the origami lotus resting in Soo Lin’s lifeless hand. He put it back down before pulling out his phone to call the police. 

Y/N stared at Soo Lin until her eyes unfocused and all she could feel was her heartbeat. She came out of her shocked stupor when the officers arrived on the scene. Y/N stood to leave and something slid from her shoulders. Y/N picked up Sherlock’s coat from where it had dropped and hugged it to her chest. 

She slipped it back on and relished the comfort and warmth. It reminded her that she was alive. Y/N drew herself up to her full height and took a deep breath. She knew what to do. 

 

At the precinct, while John and Sherlock went about convincing Dimmock to get off his bloody high horse and help them, Y/N put in a few official requests and got the following two days off for “vacation.” She was determined to help Sherlock solve the case. She needed to stop Zhi Zhu and General Shan. 

Y/N arrived at 221B just as the officers who delivered Van Coon and Lukis’ books were leaving. She gave her mother a quick kiss in greeting before jogging up the stairs.  

John gave a “hello” without looking up from the stack on his desk. Y/N hung up Sherlock’s coat by the door and then placed her own red one next to it. She didn’t see him watching her as she moved. 

He noticed the bags under her eyes and that her hands trembled ever so slightly. He could also see; however, from her straightened posture and determined gaze that he shouldn’t say anything. Y/N went for a pile of unopened boxes and got to work. Over the course of the night and into the next morning, they had discovered 13 books that Van Coon and Lukis had in common.

As John trudged out to his job, Y/N decided to take a quick break. She got up from where she’d been sitting on the floor and stretched. Her muscles popped and some of her body’s tension released. 

She went on a short adventure into the kitchen to make tea for her and Sherlock before sitting right back down and continuing the search. 221B Baker Street was quiet for the rest of the day apart from the occasional thinking aloud from either detective as they worked. Y/N had no idea how much time had actually passed when John arrived home again in the afternoon. 

“I need to get some air. We’re going out tonight.” Sherlock announced. 

“Actually,” John contested, “I’ve got a date.” 

“Really?” Y/N asked with a smile. “Who’s the lucky person?” 

“The other doctor from the clinic. Sarah.” John said proudly. 

“Where are you going?” 

“The cinema.” 

“Ugh. Dull, boring, predictable. Why don’t you try this?” Sherlock suggested, handing John a slip of paper. “In London for one night only.” 

“Thanks, but I don’t come to you for dating advice.” 

Y/N, intrigued, came over to John and took the paper from him. 

It was an advertisement for a circus act. 

“I dunno, John. I think it looks fun.” Y/N said with a grin. 

~

“I have two tickets reserved for tonight.” John asked the man at the admissions window. 

“What’s the name?” 

“Holmes.” John said, getting out his wallet. 

“Actually, I have four in that name.” 

John frowned in confusion. “No, I don’t think so. We only got two.” 

“And then I phoned back and got two for us.” Sherlock said, coming round the corner in a dramatic fashion. Y/N followed, rolling her eyes at his antics. 

“I’m Sherlock.” He said, offering his hand to Sarah. 

She shook it and laughed awkwardly. “Er, hi?” 

“Hello.” He said before swooping off to someplace else. John followed, his face stormy.

Y/N stepped forward with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about Sherlock, he’s a bit of a drama queen. I’m Y/N.” 

“Sarah.” 

“Lovely to meet you. John’s said such wonderful things about you.” Y/N said congenially.

“Really? That’s sweet of him.” Sarah looked down at her shoes and smiled. 

There as a beat of awkward silence. 

“Are you American?” Sarah asked. 

“Oh no, I just grew up there. Haven’t quite shaken the accent.” Y/N explained. 

“I see.” 

Y/N cleared her throat. “Shall we see where the boys went off to?” 

“Yes please.” 

The mismatched group of four waited in the warehouse-turned-performance space for the act to begin. While John spoke with Sarah, Y/N looked around, trying to spot anyone suspicious. 

Someone began to beat a drum as an older woman in traditional garb came out and began the act. It was a basic Chinese escapology act. She demonstrated the sensitive weight trigger of a crossbow before a warrior is brought out and required to get out of his chains before the bow fires and kills him. The sandbag and the weight add extra suspense to the challenge, of course. 

Sarah was captivated, getting easily scared by any sudden noise and grabbing onto John as often as possible which added to John’s enjoyment of the act. Y/N observed all this with a smile, but was more interested in keeping watch while Sherlock snuck backstage. Her job was made much easier by the old woman announcing “the Spider” as a man descended from the ceiling to climb fabric and do acrobatics. 

“Zhi Zhu.” Y/N whispered.

She was preparing to slip backstage herself and help Sherlock when the tall man himself came bursting out of the curtains upstage. A man in warrior’s armor followed, weilding a very real sword. 

Zhi Zhu pulled off his mask and made his escape, but Y/N got a good look at his face before he disappeared. 

John ran at the sword-wielding warrior, knocking him into the wall. As they fought, Y/N broke a torch off of the wall and joined the fray. The warrior had kicked John away and was preparing to stab Sherlock when a foot hit him squarely in the chest. He stumbled backward and Y/N slammed the wooden stick repeatedly into his ribs, his arms, and his helmet until the man lay unconscious on the ground.

Sherlock pulled off the man’s shoe, revealing a black lotus tattoo on his heel.

“We need to go.” Y/N said, helping John to his feet.

 

Their ragtag group returned to 221B after a disappointing meeting with Dimmock. Sherlock and Y/N went straight to work at finding what was stolen, as it was the key to finding the Black Lotus again. Y/N knew they were close, she and Sherlock would solve the case. 

That is, if Sarah would just shut up. Or better yet, go home. 

While John scrambled around the kitchen for anything edible, she kept grabbing notes and asking questions that Y/N would normally tolerate if there wasn’t such a rush to solve the case. 

“So these numbers, it’s a cipher.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock said in an exasperated tone. 

“And each pair of numbers is a word.” 

Y/N looked up, all annoyance with Sarah flying out the window. “How did you know that?” Y/N asked. 

“Well two words have already been translated here.” Sarah pointed out, showing Y/N the picture of the brick wall by the train tracks. 

“Nine Mill” were printed on the first two symbols. 

“John,” Sherlock called. “John look at this.” 

“Soo Lin had already translated part of the code. We just didn’t see.” Y/N said excitedly.  

Sherlock murmured to himself, “Nine million quid...but for what?” 

Y/N rushed to grab Sherlock’s coat off of the rack. “You need to go to the museum.”

Sherlock accepted the coat. “We must have been staring right at it!” 

Y/N pushed him towards the door. “Yes, I know. I’ll explain to them, you hurry.” 

With that he was gone, and shortly after him Sarah left as well, saying something about “too many Chinese gangsters for one night.” John sat heavily down onto the sofa. 

“She’s probably not going to call me.” He said tiredly. 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Y/N disagreed. “That was a pretty unique first date.” 

John laughed. “Shall I order takeaway?” 

“Sounds wonderful.” Y/N approved. 

Barely ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. Y/N was too tired to question the unusual speed of the order’s arrival. She sat looking over Sherlock’s pile of notes as she heard what she assumed were John’s footsteps on the stairs.

“I set the table in the kitchen. Well, I put out trays-” She turned around, stopping mid-sentence as a metal object was slammed into her temple, knocking her out cold. 

~

Y/N awoke in a dark cavern to the sight of John being held at gunpoint. The person on the other end of the gun was the disappearing woman Y/N had seen on the street in Chinatown. John was speaking with the woman, but Y/N herself was gagged. She struggled against the ties on her wrists and ankles as the woman accused John of being Sherlock Holmes. 

“I am Shan.” She said.

“You-you’re Shan?” John breathed, clearly panicking a bit.  

“Three times we tried to kill you and your companions, Mr. Holmes. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?” She asked, cocking the gun. 

John squirmed and turned away, breathing rapidly as he stared death in the face. Y/N struggled harder against her bonds and made muffled cries. Shan pulled the trigger anyway. 

The gun clicked with the sound of an empty barrel. 

“It tells you that they are not really trying.” She said with a sadistic smile. 

She loaded the gun for real and continued speaking. “If we wanted to kill you, Mr. Holmes, we would have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive.” 

She tilted her head to one side. “Do you have it?” 

“Do I have what?” John panted.

“The treasure.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John spoke quickly, his voice breaking. 

“I would prefer to make certain.” Shan said as her goons revealed the crossbow from the circus act.

“Everything in the West has a price,” Shan mused. “And the price for her life: information.” 

The goons grabbed Y/N’s chair and carried her around to the other side of the bow so that the arrow would strike her right in the heart when it flew. 

She could hear John whispering “I’m sorry” over and over.

Y/N felt her chest tightening and her muscles clenching as she itched to run, to fight, to do something other than sit there tied up and helpless. Her desperate protests were unintelligible around the gag. 

Hot tears began rolling down her cheeks as Shan asked John about a jade pin, the treasure stolen from the Black Lotus. John insisted again that he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes when Shan turned to Y/N.

“I need a volunteer from the audience.” She said sinisterly. 

Y/N let out a desperate sob. 

“Ah, thank you, lady.” Shan replied. “Yes, you’ll do very nicely.” 

Shan cut the sandbag, and the time Y/N had left to live suddenly became a matter of minutes. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure: Sherlock Holmes’ pretty companion in a death defying act.” 

Shan placed the black origami rose onto Y/N’s forearm. Y/N’s entire body trembled as she wept. 

“You’ve seen the act before, how dull for you. You know how it ends.” She whispered in Y/N’s ear. 

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!” John bellowed. 

“I don’t believe you.” Shan said simply. 

“You should, you know!” Yelled a familiar deep voice. “Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him.” 

Shan spun around and cocked the gun at a point behind where Y/N was sitting. Y/N heard footsteps and Sherlock’s voice echoing around the tunnel. 

“How would you describe me John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?” 

One of the goons who had lifted Y/N ran around to where he thought Sherlock’s voice was coming from. Zhi Zhu stayed next to her. 

“Late?” John suggested. 

Y/N could see that John was more relaxed, seeing a possibility of escape. Y/N; however, wouldn’t be able to breath until the crossbow was no longer pointed at her, now with mere moments until it fired. 

“That is a semi-automatic,” Sherlock called, referring to Shan’s gun. “If you fire it the bullet will travel at over 1,000 meters per second.” 

“Well?” Shan challenged.

“Well,” Y/N heard the sound of a goon being knocked unconscious. “The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet with ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you.” 

With a clang, Sherlock knocked over a burning trash bin being used for light. Y/N felt his gloved hands working to untie her the next moment. He stopped abruptly as Zhi Zhu began strangling him with a scarf. 

“Sherlock!” She cried, the sound deadened by her gag. 

She wrenched her body back and forth desperately, trying to break free as she heard Sherlock choking and gasping behind her. 

The weight fell continuously closer to the trigger point. Y/N froze and merely stared at it as it closed the last few inches of space between her life and death. 

Y/N thought of her mother, and how she should have told her how much she loved her. She thought of John and Sherlock and how grateful she was to have known them. Y/N prayed that even if she died, they would make it out of the dark tunnel. 

She stared directly at the tip of the arrow, unable to cry, unable to think, and unable to move as the weight touched the bowl. 

In a split second, the bow tipped and the arrow released at a sideways angle, hitting Zhi Zhu in the stomach. He cried out and fell down dead barely a foot away from where she would have been. 

Y/N’s ears rang with the sound of rushing blood. Her chest heaved as she gasped around the cloth in her mouth. She felt the restraint tying her torso to the chair loosen and fall away. 

“It’s alright.” She heard Sherlock say.

Through her tear-blurred vision she saw John on the floor. She was too distressed to realize that he had saved her. 

Sherlock gently lifted the gag away from her mouth. “It’s alright. You’re going to be alright. It’s over now, Y/N.” He moved around in front of her and worked on freeing her wrists and ankles. 

Her breathing was ragged. Every muscle felt weak and sore. Sherlock placed his hands on her shoulders and she collapsed into him with a sob. Unsure of himself, he gingerly wrapped his arms around her. He didn’t pull away until the police arrived, and even then, he made sure that she wasn’t without him or John until the three of them had returned safely to 221B. 

~

“You mind, don’t you?” John asked Sherlock over breakfast the next day. 

“What?” 

“That she escaped. General Shan. It’s not enough that we got her two henchmen.” John said, clasping his hands in a gesture that was reminiscent of Sherlock’s own thinking pose. 

“Must be a vast network John. Thousands of operatives. We’ve barely scratched the surface.” 

“You cracked the code, though, Sherlock. And maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that he knows it.” John argued. 

“No. No, I cracked this code. Now all the smugglers have to do is pick up another book.” Sherlock pointed out. 

They watched in silence as a street artist spray painted an eye onto a postbox across the street. Downstairs, the muffled sounds of Mrs. Hudson speaking and Y/N’s voice replying could be heard. 

Sherlock grimaced at the memory of Y/N so scared and broken. Lestrade had agreed to give her the rest of the week off on paid leave, and she was planning on spending the first few days with her mother. 

John observed Sherlock and smiled slightly. 

“You feel guilty.” He stated. 

“What?” Sherlock looked up, perplexed. 

“You think that it’s your fault Y/N and I were kidnapped.” John deduced. 

Sherlock scoffed. “More logically, it’s your fault for carrying all of my things and making them think you were me. If they had tried to kidnap the real me, they wouldn’t have succeeded.” 

“Uh huh.” John said, still unconvinced. 

Sherlock picked up the newspaper again, ignoring John’s stare and making a mental note not to invite him when he went down to check on Y/N later. 


	6. Late Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? A new chapter 4 days ahead of schedule? 
> 
> Why yes, I decided to give you guys a little gift since I love you so much (and I just couldn't wait a full week)! Hope you like it!

Sherlock was up late. He hadn’t been able to find any good cases since the Black Lotus, and was growing impatient with trivial clients wanting to know if a spouse was cheating or wanting help finding their missing cat. 

The clock was nearing two in the morning as he paced about the apartment. He checked his laptop for any murder-related headlines. He banged things together in the kitchen. He sat in his chair. He got up from his chair. He hurled insults at the skull on the mantle. He made tea. He plucked out a melody on his violin. 

He was grappling with the urge to uncover his stash when he heard a sound from downstairs. Someone was leaving Mrs. Hudson’s flat and going outside. 

Y/N. 

Sherlock swooped down the stairs to the foyer, burgundy dressing gown flowing behind him. He threw open the door, ready to careen down the street after his friend. She was merely sitting on the front stoop, looking up at the night sky and he nearly tripped over her in his haste.

“Good morning, Sherlock.” She said, as though this were something they did every day. Her voice had a wobbly quality to it. He noticed the shiny trails over her cheeks where she had been crying.

“Hello.” He returned, sitting down next to her. 

He didn’t say anything else, he just sat with her in the cold night air. She would speak when she was ready to, and besides, he had no clue what to say to make her feel better. 

A breeze blew past, ruffling Sherlock’s curls. Y/N shivered, pulling her long knit cardigan closer around her body. 

“Do you have earl grey in your apartment? I’ve been craving, but Mum’s only got irish breakfast and peppermint.” She finally spoke. 

“We can look if you like.” 

She nodded, swiping away the tears with the back of her hand before getting up and following him inside. 

Once inside the warmth of 221B, Y/N sat down in one of the kitchen chairs while Sherlock poured her a mug of earl grey. She wrapped her hands around the cup. 

“I’ve been having nightmares.” She told him, looking at her tea. 

He hummed, only acknowledging that he had heard her, not that he was worried or that he pitied her. She took a sip of her tea, hands shaking ever so slightly as she lifted the cup above the table. 

“Sometimes I’m me.” She went on. “Sitting strapped to that chair, waiting to die.” She touched the discolored skin around her wrist from the restraint. “Sometimes I’m stuck there, unable to stop Zhi Zhu from killing you.” 

She took a deep breath and met his eyes. “Tonight I was Soo Lin. I was alone, and no one came to save me before he-” 

Y/N looked away again and broke off speaking. She touched her finger tips to her lips, and looked at the wall behind Sherlock’s right shoulder, lost in the memory of her dream. 

After a minute, Sherlock spoke. “Your tea is getting cold.” 

Y/N looked at him again, her E/C eyes searching his own for moment. Then she smiled. Sherlock felt a strange rush of energy despite not drinking any black tea himself. His heartbeat had noticeably quickened, as blood flowed faster through his body. 

That’s strange, he thought. 

He stood suddenly and made his way into the sitting room, looking at the bookshelf by his chair. Y/N stayed at the table, observing him. 

He looked over at her in slight annoyance. “Well? Come here.” 

Y/N gave him a disapproving stare. She did not get up, opting to take another slow sip of her tea instead.

“Oh for the love of-” He lamented. “Come here,  _ please.” _

She put her tea down with a large innocent grin and came to join him. 

“Your mother,” he began. “Is always rearranging my bookshelf when I’m not here and I can never find anything. What could her organization method possibly be?” 

“The Hudsons thrive on changing things around every few years. I would always redecorate or add things to my room when I was a teenager. Mum’s the same way about organizing. Let see…” Y/N brushed her hand along the spines of the books. 

Sherlock could see the usual sparkle returning to her eye as she took on the puzzle. Y/N moved to the bookshelf closest to the door and worked from left to right. Sherlock sat down in his chair and watched, fingers steepled under his chin. 

“It’s not date, alphabet, or genre.” Y/N thought aloud. 

She opened a few volumes and scanned the shelves some more. She paused. “Oh.” 

“Have you got it, then?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head to the side. 

Y/N smiled softly at him. She grabbed the first book on the left side of the top shelf. It was  _ Persuasion _ by Jane Austen. 

“It’s my favorites in descending order.” She said. 

Sherlock hummed again as Y/N brought the book over to the sofa and curled up with it, finding comfort in the familiar characters. Of course, it had taken Sherlock only about an hour to figure out Mrs. Hudson’s system (he did have a disadvantage compared to Y/N). He was pleasantly surprised at the satisfaction he felt over having made her feel better. 

John and Y/N evoked a strange desire within him to...care. For the first time, there were people who really truly mattered to him. 

Obviously, that fact was terrifying, and yet somehow he welcomed it. 

An indeterminable amount of time later, Sherlock came out of his reverie. He looked over at the sofa and saw that Y/N had fallen asleep. The book lay open on her stomach and one of her hands dangled over the edge of the couch. Her face was serene and relaxed. Sherlock studied her a moment longer, taking in the details of her. 

He slipped off his dressing gown and laid it over her. He switched off the lights in the sitting room and retired to his own bed.

When he woke up, early afternoon sunlight filtered through the seams of his curtains. He rolled out of bed and trudged into the kitchen. John was sat at his desk, typing at his computer. 

“Party hard last night?” He asked. 

Sherlock merely scoffed in response. 

“She left something for you on the kitchen table.” John said.

A platter of muffins sat in the center of Sherlock’s makeshift lab. His dressing gown was lain over the back of the chair she’d sat in the night before. There was a note next to the muffins that said simply: “thank you.” 

Sherlock smiled. 

~

Y/N stepped out of Scotland Yard into the cold and gray London day. She was headed for the closest cafe, thinking only of a strong cup of black tea. She’d risen early, despite staying up with Sherlock, and went to meet with the Yard’s resident psychologist. 

They had agreed to meet every so often in the next few weeks to discuss Y/N’s condition in the aftermath of the kidnapping. Talking, both with Dr. Yan and with Sherlock, was improving her mood already. 

About the cross the street, Y/N halted at the sound of a familiar voice. “So the muffin makes muffins? How adorable.” 

“I’m just dandy, thanks for asking, Mycroft.” Y/N said sarcastically, continuing on her way. 

The older Holmes followed, swinging his umbrella as he walked. 

“It’s about time for lunch and a chat I think.” Mycroft said. 

“Sherlock’s perfectly fine. But I think we both know you already knew that.” She sassed. 

“Good for him. I came to talk about you.” 

Y/N stopped in her tracks. 

~

“He did what?!” John exclaimed, incredulous. 

“He offered me a job. A proper one, not just spying on Sherlock for him.” Y/N said. 

“Does he want you as an assassin? An undercover agent? His PA?” Sherlock inquired blandly from his chair. 

“He said that he’d give me double what I get at the Yard, and my own lab of I solved cases with you and took on ones he assigns to me.” 

“Did you take it?” John asked eagerly.

“I told him I’d think about it.” Y/N answered. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “He must really want you. Mycroft doesn’t like to wait.” 

“A family trait, I suppose.” 

“I think you should take it.” John advised. 

“I need more time. I really like working at Scotland Yard. I have friends there who aren’t, you know, government agents.” 

“You’d be rid of Anderson.” Sherlock pointed out with a smirk.

“Ooooooh. That’s a good point.” Y/N agreed, making John laugh. 

Sherlock watched as his two friends laughed and talked for a while. He felt oddly at ease, despite not having anything to do. 

It was lovely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should Y/N take the job? No more Anderson does sound pretty good to me. And what did you think about the books? Are you sure Sherlock wasn't the one who organized them that way? He is very observant. 
> 
> Comment below with your thoughts! <3


	7. The Great Game Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday I observed a lot of interesting people on the bus and I may have to incorporate them into this story later...people are fascinating. 
> 
> Hope you like the chapter!   
> <3

A strong gust of cold evening wind breezed over Y/N’s body. Her red peacoat kept her torso sufficiently warm, but as her hair blew back away from her face, she felt a chill creep down her spine from the neck down. She picked up the pace, watching the light of day melting into the grey glow of early evening. Y/N felt a bit like she was racing the sun, trying to get to 221B before the last rays gave way to the dark night sky. 

Sherlock had returned from Minsk earlier in the day, and Y/N was eager to hear if anything had come of the case he was after. The lack of murder in London had driven the blue-eyed detective to look elsewhere. Y/N on the other hand, had treated her case of boredom by reading John’s blog. His account of the Hope investigation, or as he had titled it, “A Study in Pink,” was wonderful. She especially enjoyed his honest portrayal of Sherlock, the genius who didn’t know primary school astronomy.

Y/N skipped up the steps of 221B Baker Street with a smile on her face. Letting herself in with her key, she called a quick hello to her mother before going upstairs to see her sociopathic friend. 

Sherlock was sprawled across his chair like a moody adolescent, clad in pajamas and his blue dressing gown. He didn’t look over at her as she hung up her coat. 

“Good evening Sherlock.” She greeted, walking into the kitchen. 

“Not at all a good evening.” He replied, propelling himself into standing position and following her. 

“Case was a bust then, I suppose?” She said, taking out two mugs and putting the kettle on for tea. 

Sherlock confirmed her question without answering. Instead, he picked up the mug she always used when she came over, a white ceramic one with a design of black vines and thorns with a few roses going around it. He scowled at the cup as he turned it over in his hands a few times. 

Y/N plucked it from his grasp and put it back on the counter. 

“Oh cheer up, Sherlock. Some heinous criminal always emerges sooner or later.” 

He groaned like a child just told to go take a bath and flopped back down in his chair. He pulled out a handgun and shot at the smiley face on the wall. 

Y/N yelped in surprise, making Sherlock smirk. 

She leant against the doorway separating the sitting room and the kitchen and folded her arms. “Mum is absolutely adding that to your rent.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw his head back, looking up at the ceiling. Y/N poured the tea, leaving his cup on the table next to his chair. She selected a book off of the shelf and cuddled up with it in John’s chair. 

Over the course of the first four chapters, Sherlock got up and paced, jumped on the couch, pestered her, chugged his tea, broke the mug, and pestered her some more. If Y/N had said she wasn’t entertained, she would’ve been lying. 

John arrived home by the time Sherlock was shooting the wall again. Y/N didn’t even look up from her book as Sherlock shot the wall a few more times yelling “Bored!” 

“Has he been like this the whole time?” John asked her, taking away the gun and unloading it. 

“It’s been quite the show.” Y/N said, laughing. 

“Don’t know what’s got into the criminal classes. Good job I’m not one of them.” Sherlock mused, moving to inspect his handiwork on the wall. 

“So you take it out on the wall?” John asked, incredulous. 

“Oh, the wall had it coming.” Sherlock replied passively, flopping onto the couch this time. 

“What about that Russian case?” John asked, taking off his jacket. 

“Belarus.” Sherlock corrected. “Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time.”

“Oh, shame.” John said sarcastically. “Anything in? I’m starving.”

Y/N heard the sound of the fridge door opening. 

“Oh…” John said, disgusted, before opening it again. “It’s a head.” He said disbelievingly to himself. 

“So you’ve met Harold, then?” Y/N called from her seat. 

“A severed head!” 

“Just tea for me thanks.” Sherlock said blandly. 

“No, there’s a head in the fridge.” John insisted. 

“Yes?” 

“A bloody head!” John snapped. 

“Well, where else was I supposed to put it? You don’t mind, do you?” 

Y/N got up and gently hit Sherlock with her book. “His name is Harold, not ‘it.’” 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re not the only one who gets bored, okay?” She replied defensively, going back to John’s chair. 

“Got it from Bart’s Morgue. I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.” Sherlock explained to John. 

“I read  _ A Study in Pink. _ ” Y/N said to John, who had come to sit in Sherlock’s chair. “It was wonderful. Did you like it, Sherlock?” Y/N asked conversationally. 

The detective was flipping through a magazine. “Um...no.” He said. 

“Why not? I thought you’d be flattered.” John was surprised.  

“Flattered?” Sherlock let the magazine fall. “‘Sherlock sees through everyone and everything in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.’” 

“Now hang on a minute. I didn’t mean that-” John protested. 

“Oh! You meant ‘spectacularly ignorant’ in a nice way. Look, it doesn’t matter to me who’s Prime Minister or who’s sleeping with who.” Sherlock said. 

“Whether the earth goes round the sun.” John added under his breath. 

Sherlock threw his head to the side in exasperation. “Oh, God, that again. It’s not important!” He insisted.

“Not important…” John leant forward in his seat. “It’s primary school stuff! How can you not know that?” 

“Well if I did, I’ve deleted it.” Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. 

“Deleted it?” Y/N piped up. 

“Listen,” Sherlock sat up, his voice getting low and gravely in irritation. “This is my hard drive.” He indicated his head. “I only put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish. That makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?” 

Y/N nodded. “I’ve certainly done that, but maybe not to such an extreme.” 

John looked between them for a moment before blurting out: “But it’s the solar system!” 

Sherlock held his head in his hands. Y/N groaned. 

“Oh hell!” Sherlock exclaimed. “What does that matter? So we go around the sun. If we went round the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn’t make any difference!” 

“Sherlock-” Y/N sat up, hoping to calm him down a bit. 

“All that matters to me is the work.” He insisted. “Without that, my brain rots!” He ruffled his hair. “Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world.” With that, he turned around and lay down, ignoring his two friends. 

“Sherlock!” Y/N scolded before turning to John. “I thought the blog was brilliant, no matter what he says.” 

John gave her a strained smile before getting up and grabbing his coat again. Y/N followed, wishing she could placate the doctor. 

“Where are you going?” She asked tentatively. 

“Out!” He snapped in Sherlock’s direction. “I need some air.”

John passed Mrs. Hudson on the stairs. She came in with her usual “hoo-hoo!” and gave her daughter a quick kiss on the cheek before dropping some things off in the kitchen. 

“Have you and John had a little domestic?” She called to the moody detective. 

He didn’t answer, choosing instead to stomp across the sitting room to watch John leave the building. Y/N watched him from near the door. She could see the tension coiled in his body from boredom and frustration. It was hard for him to interact honestly without putting people off. She smiled softly, knowing that he would figure out how to keep his snootiness in check with time and help from her and John. 

“Look at that, Y/N.” Sherlock said, still looking out at the London night. “Quiet, calm, peaceful.” He sighed. “Isn’t it hateful?” 

“Oh I’m sure something will turn up, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson replied from the kitchen. “A nice murder. That’ll cheer you up.” She patted Y/N on the shoulder. “Both of you.” 

“Can’t come too soon.” Sherlock said. 

Y/N smiled at her mother lovingly and gave her a hug, steering her out of the apartment before she noticed the bullet holes Sherlock had left in the wall. Y/N turned back around to face her bored companion. 

She took a step towards him, “Sherlock-” 

An enormous explosion from across the street blew the windows inward, filling Y/N’s vision with fire as she flew backwards. In the split seconds she was in the air, she saw Sherlock’s dressing gown billowing and his hand reaching in her direction. The back of her head hit something hard, and the world went dark. 

 

There was a ringing sound in Y/N’s ears. She stirred, dimly aware of movement, something touching her, and pain. Lots of pain. Her head hurt. Her body ached. There were small stinging, irritating pains in her hands, her arms, and a few on her forehead and brow. 

Y/N blinked, forcing her eyelids to open. Her vision slowly came into focus and she realized that the blue all around her was Sherlock’s dressing gown. He was holding her in his arms, slowly carrying her away from the destroyed sitting room. 

“Sherlock…?” 

“Don’t move.” He said calmly. 

She obeyed, closing her eyes again and willing the pain in her skull to just go away. Sherlock instinctively tightened his grip on Y/N as he took the final steps into his bedroom. He laid her carefully onto the unmade bed. She resisted his movement away from her for a moment, as though she felt unsafe outside of his arms. 

He shushed her gently, leaving the room for only a moment to call the police. When he walked back through the doorway, her face broke into a huge, relieved grin. Her eyes were still a bit glazed over, and Sherlock could tell that in her dazed state she hadn’t been sure if he’d come back. Sherlock crouched in front of his friend and looked her over for any sign of serious injury. Finding nothing outwardly apparent, he began the process of testing her mind. 

The next hours were a blur of Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, paramedics, and police officers asking Y/N questions, giving first aid, and surveying the scene across the street. 

By the early hours of the morning, Y/N’s disorientation had worn off, and she was left with mild pain from where glass shards had struck her, and an unceasing exhaustion. The paramedics had concluded that both she and Sherlock had escaped the blast without concussions or any serious injuries. 

As soon as the last officer vacated the apartment, Sherlock ordered Y/N back into his bedroom to rest. She protested, saying that he should go too, and that she’d take John’s room. Sherlock’s only response was to place one of his large hands on her back and push her down the hallway and into his bedroom where he promptly closed the door on her. 

“Fine.” Sherlock heard Y/N grumble from behind the door. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a smirk.

 

Y/N awoke to daylight filtering through the curtains of Sherlock’s window and the sounds of voices speaking in the sitting room. She sat up, made a half-hearted attempt at smoothing her hair with a bandaged hand, and made her way out of the bedroom. 

Sherlock was sat in his chair, fully dressed in one of his well-tailored suits. He held his violin casually, and plucked out a few notes here and there. Sitting across from him in John’s chair was the elder Holmes brother, signature umbrella resting beside him. 

“Morning, Spycroft.” Y/N greeted as though it were the most natural thing in the world. 

“Sleeping in Sherlock’s bed now? My, my.” He teased. 

Y/N ignored him, moving to the kitchen to make tea. With her back turned, and Mycroft laughing at his own joke, no one noticed the slight flush in Sherlock’s cheeks. 

“Can’t.” Sherlock said, changing the subject.

“Can’t or won’t?” Mycroft asked. 

“Can’t.” Sherlock emphasized the ‘t.’ “Far too busy at the present moment.”

“Too busy for what exactly?” Y/N interjected. 

“Andrew West, civil servant, found dead on the tracks near a station this morning with his head smashed in.” Mycroft said, turning to look in Y/N’s direction. 

“Let me guess, assassin? Double agent? Your assistant?” Y/N asked. 

“Can’t it just be an accident?” Mycroft countered innocently. 

“You wouldn’t be here if it was.” She retorted. 

“The M.O.D is working on a new weapons system: The Bruce Partington Program, it’s called. The plans for it were on a memory stick.” 

Y/N barked out a laugh.

“It wasn’t the only copy.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “But it is secret. And missing. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can’t possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands.” Mycroft finished. 

Y/N poured herself a large cup of earl grey and came to perch on the arm of Sherlock’s chair. 

“And you want Sherlock to find the plans?” She asked. 

“Well, if you want a taste of what working for me would be like, then please take it on yourself. Here is the file-” Mycroft handed a thick manilla folder over to her as John came rushing up the steps. 

“Sherlock!” 

The detective plucked a chord on his violin. “John.” He replied.  

“I saw it on the telly...you okay?” He said, out of breath from panic. 

“What, me? Oh yes fine. Gas leak, apparently.” Sherlock replied. 

Y/N got up and gave the doctor a tight hug. He spoke into her shoulder. “And you? You okay?” 

She pulled back and shrugged, showing him her hands. “A little scratched up, but not horrible.” 

“Think it over.” Mycroft said to Y/N before shaking John’s hand and leaving the flat. 

John sat down on the couch and looked around the room. A cool breeze blew in through the broken windows. 

Sherlock’s phone rang. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” He lifted up his head with a pleased smile. “Of course, how could I refuse.” 

“Lestrade?” Y/N asked.

“I’ve been summoned.” Sherlock explained to John. “Coming?”

John got to his feet eagerly. “Of course.” 

Sherlock turned to Y/N expectantly. She smiled, grabbing her coat. “Where I else would I be going?” 

“I’d be lost without my blogger and...my Y/N.” He said before sweeping down the stairs. John followed on his heels, but Y/N faltered slightly. 

_ My Y/N.  _

She smiled, feeling a pleasant tightening sensation of nervous excitement in her chest. She felt warm. And happy. Without another thought, she dashed down to catch up with her friends. 

~

The trio trailed Lestrade down the hallway to his office as he explained a new find. The explosion wasn’t a gas leak, but was instead made to look like one, leaving behind only a strongbox with an envelope addressed to Sherlock inside of it. Sherlock picked up the bohemian stationary and examined it, before letting Y/N take a look as well.

“She used a fountain pen.” Sherlock deduced. 

Y/N held it under the light and studied the handwriting. “Parker Duofold, iridium nib.” Y/N added. 

“She?” John questioned. 

“Obviously.” 

Y/N handed it back to Sherlock who sliced it carefully with a paper knife. He pulled out a phone. It was identical to the one from the Hope case. 

“But that’s the phone. The pink phone.” John said. 

“What, from  _ The Study in Pink?”  _ Lestrade asked. 

Sherlock thought aloud. “Well, obviously it’s not the same phone, but it’s supposed to look like-” He turned around suddenly. “ _ A Study in Pink? _ You read his blog?!” 

“‘Course I read his blog. We all do.” Lestrade replied. Y/N shrugged in agreement. 

“Do you really not know that the earth goes round the sun?” Lestrade questioned, making Donovan snicker.

Y/N glared at the sergeant before bringing the conversation back to the case. “It isn’t the same phone.” She repeated, looking to Sherlock. 

“This one is brand new.” He continued. “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone. Which means, your blog has a far wider readership.” He directed towards John. 

Sherlock opened the one voicemail left on the device. Five Greenwich Time Signal Pips played through the speaker into the room. 

“Is that it?” 

“No,” Sherlock said. “That’s not it.” 

The sound of a text message pinged. A photo of a basement shone on the small screen. There was a fireplace at the center and peeling wallpaper on the right side. The dirty floor was empty. 

“What the hell are we supposed to make of that?” Lestrade asked. “An estate agent’s photo and the bloody Greenwich pips.”

Y/N could see the gears turning in Sherlock’s head. “It’s a warning.” He said. 

“A warning?” 

“Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that.” Y/N said, her own thoughts whirling at the same time. 

“Five pips. They’re warning us it’s going to happen again.” Sherlock concluded. 

Y/N’s eyes lit up as a piece fell into place. She looked once more at the photo and smiled. “I know where that place is.” She said before barrelling out the door in excitement. 

The three men followed. John grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “Hang on, what’s going to happen again?” 

“Boom.” Sherlock said. 

 

Within fifteen minutes, their little group of sleuths had returned to 221 Baker Street. This time; however, they were visiting 221C. 

The sitting room was nearly identical to the photograph on the pink phone. The only difference was the pair of vintage athletic sneakers sitting ominously in the center of the floor. 

“Shoes…” John murmured. 

Y/N felt a shiver tickle her spine, making her feel as though someone was right behind her. She inched inside the room and stood as close to the wall as possible. She hugged herself defensively and watched as Sherlock approached the shoes. 

“Careful. He’s a bomber, remember.” John cautioned. 

Sherlock crouched down to look at the shoes, his nose barely an inch away when the pink phone rang loudly. Y/N nearly jumped out of her skin in surprise. Sherlock looked at the phone, allowing it to ring twice more before he answered. “Hello.” 

Y/N heard a woman take a shuddering breath. “H-hello….sexy.” She sobbed. 

“Who is this?” Sherlock asked.

“I sent you a...little...puzzle just to say ‘hi.’” The woman gasped. 

“Who’s talking?” Sherlock asked. “Why are you crying?” 

“I-I’m not crying. I’m typing. And this….stupid bitch is reading it out.” The woman cried. 

Y/N stepped forward and put a hand on Sherlock’s arm. He met her worried gaze. 

“The game is on.” She said. 

“What?” John asked. 

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied. 

“No, what did she mean?” 

“We’ve been expecting this for some time.” Sherlock explained. 

The woman spoke again. “Twelve hours...to solve my puzzle, Sherlock. Or I’m going to be...so...naughty.” With that, the line went dead. 

“We need to get those sneakers to a lab” Y/N said. 

Lestrade nodded. “Use yours. I want you with Sherlock and me on this one every step of the way.” 

“Not Y/N’s lab.” Sherlock demanded. “Too much Anderson everywhere.” 

Y/N pulled out her phone. “We’ll go to Bart’s. I’ll call Molly.” 

Molly happily gave her friends full access to her equipment, and Y/N and Sherlock were hard at work as the first three hours passed. 

Sherlock examined a mud sample from the sole of one shoe while Y/N deduced that they were original 1989 british made sneakers. John paced nearby. 

“Who do you ‘spose it was?” The doctor asked. 

“Hm?” 

“The woman on the phone, the crying woman.” John elaborated. 

“No lead there.” Y/N answered. 

“What do you mean?” John questioned. 

“She doesn’t matter, just a hostage.” Sherlock explained. 

A ding emitted from Sherlock’s phone. “Pass me my phone.” He requested. 

John looked about for the device, but Y/N moved quicker, slipping it out of Sherlock’s jacket pocket and taking a look. 

“You’re a child.” She teased the tall sociopath. “It’s a text from Mycroft.” 

_ Any progress on Andrew West’s death? _

“Delete it.” He ordered. 

“Really?” She protested. 

“The plans are out of the country now, there’s nothing we can do about it.” Sherlock reasoned. 

“Well Mycroft seems to think otherwise. He’s texted you eight times and,” she pulled out her own phone, “texted me ten times.” 

Sherlock raised his head, annoyed. “The why didn’t he cancel his dental appointment.” 

“What?” John asked from the other side of the desk. 

“Mycroft never texts if he can talk.” Sherlock tilted his head, irritated. “Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, and got his head bashed in for his pains. End of story. The real mystery is why my brother is so determined to bore me when someone else is being so delightfully interesting.” Sherlock said gleefully.

John frowned. “Try to remember there’s a woman who might die.” 

“What for?” Sherlock asked provocatively. “This hospital is full of people dying, Doctor. Why don’t you go cry at their bedsides and see what good it does them?” 

John blinked in disbelief. Y/N scowled, disagreeing with absolutely everything Sherlock had just said. Her gut told her there was more to the West case than Sherlock was willing to see and she texted Mycroft, agreeing to look into it. 

Y/N tried to lean on the tabled, placing her hands on the edge for support. She stood back up abruptly with a pained hiss. She touched her bandaged palms, reminded of her recent brush with the bomber’s capabilities.Y/N saw Sherlock watching her in her periphery and noted the way his posture changed, tensing slightly and moving towards her with concern.

The laptop by her elbow beeped as the substance Sherlock was testing found a match. At nearly the same moment, Molly came cheerfully through the lab doors. 

“Any luck?” She asked, coming to look at the computer monitor. 

“Oh yes!” Sherlock said. 

A man came in through the doors, noticing the crowd assembled. “Oh! Sorry! I didn’t, erm....” He exclaimed, but came in anyway. 

“Jim, hi! Come in, come in!” Molly said in happy surprise. 

Y/N scanned the newcomer, goosebumps rising on her arms as an uncertainty fell upon her. He had short dark hair and a high forehead. He was of average height, with a bit of a slouch. A silver chain necklace disappeared under the collar of his tight fitting low v-neck tee shirt. He wasn’t slim or muscular, and his neon green underwear peeked out above the waistband of his pants. He wore a calculator watch on his left wrist. He spoke with a sort of lilting sing-songy voice that was somewhere between bass and tenor. His eyes were dark, and Y/N had the vague impression that she could see something moving behind the irises. 

The name, spoken with such enthusiasm by her friend, told Y/N that this was Molly’s new boyfriend, Jim from IT. Upon first inspection Y/N might have guessed that he was gay. 

He really made her feel...off. Something about him seemed surreal and a bit frightening. Better that he is gay, she thought, then maybe he’ll leave Molly alone and be creepy somewhere else. 

“Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes, Y/N Hudson, and John Watson.” Molly introduced.

“Hi,” Jim said to you and John before fixating on Sherlock. “So you’re Sherlock Holmes? Molly’s told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?” 

“Jim works in IT upstairs. That’s how we met.” Molly said proudly. “Office romance.” 

Jim chuckled, moving around to the other side of Sherlock. Y/N didn’t budge, making sure that she was leaning against the table next to Sherlock and keeping Jim at least a little farther away. Sherlock finally moved his gaze away from the microscope. “Gay.” Sherlock said not-so-subtly. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Molly asked, angrily. 

“Nothing, erm, hey.” He corrected, smiling at Jim. Y/N shot him a warning look, pleading silently for him to be nice to Molly. 

“Hey,” Jim returned, that creepy smile still plastered on his face. She had no idea why, but Y/N felt like she should run away from Jim, or maybe also punch him in the face. He put a hand down to lean on the table and knocked over an empty sample tray. 

“Sorry!” He said over the loud clang, bending over to pick up the tray.  

John put his hand over his eyes and wandered a few feet away, losing patience with Jim from IT. Sherlock and Y/N looked at each other for a moment, one incredulous, the other concerned. 

“Well I’d better be off.” Jim said, to Y/N’s relief. “I’ll see you at the Fox? At six-ish?” He asked Molly. 

“Yeah!” She agreed, bobbing her head in an awkward, excited way. 

“Bye,” Jim said to Sherlock. “It was nice to meet you.” 

Sherlock continued staring into the microscope lense, ignoring Jim’s intensely hopeful stare. 

“Likewise.” Y/N answered for him. Her voice was surprisingly smooth for how desperate she was to have the man leave. 

With a squeak of the lab door, Jim was gone. Molly wasted no time in questioning Sherlock, clearly needing to validate her relationship. 

“What’d you mean, gay?” She asked, laughing nervously. “We’re together.” 

“And domestic bliss must suit you Molly.” Sherlock mocked. “You’ve put on three pounds since I last saw you.” 

“Two and a half.” She corrected dejectedly. 

“Three.” He argued. 

Y/N pushed off the desk angrily, ready to defend her friend. “Sherlock-” 

“He’s not gay!” Molly interrupted. “Why do you have to spoil-! He’s not!” She insisted. 

“With that level of personal grooming?” Sherlock pointed out. 

“Just because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair!” John said doubtfully. 

“You wash your hair! There’s a difference.” Sherlock argued. “No, no. Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber’s eyes. Then there’s his underwear.”

“His underwear?” 

“Pulled up above the waistline.” Y/N explained with a grimace. She felt bad, but Sherlock was right. She’d seen the same things. “Very particular brand.” 

Sherlock put the cherry on top of Molly’s despair sundae. “Plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here.” Sherlock revealed a little white card. “And I’d say you’d better break it off now and save yourself the pain.” He told Molly.  

Y/N noticed the tears welling up in her friend’s eyes. The doctor ran away, while Sherlock merely sat and watched her go without an ounce of guilt. 

“Charming, well done.” John said sarcastically. 

“Just saving her time. Isn’t that kinder?” Sherlock argued. 

“That was certainly  _ not  _ kind.” Y/N spat at him, fuming. “I’m going to go clean up this mess. Do try not to ruin any more of your friendships while I’m gone, will you?” She said with a glare, storming out to find Molly. 

Sherlock felt a twinge in his sternum as the door swung shut behind Y/N. His excitement over the case was dulled by some negative emotion he didn’t want to accept. He had done something wrong and Y/N was angry with him. He felt like getting up and going after her, but decided against it. A person being angry with him had never stopped him before, so why should it now? 

Sherlock pushed aside the little nagging sense of anxiety in the back of his brain and turned to his favorite second pair of eyes and sounding board: John Watson. 

 

~

Y/N spent as much time as she could spare comforting Molly, what with the twelve hour deadline for the case looming ever closer. She wasn’t shocked; however, when she returned to the lab and found it empty. 

She returned to 221B with six and a half hours left on the case. John filled Y/N on the personal nature of the case, how Carl Powers was where it all had begun for Sherlock as a detective. Y/N’s concern that the case would be ultimately tied to “Moriarty” and their fascination with Sherlock grew as time passed. Her favorite sociopath had closed himself off in the kitchen looking at newspaper clippings and various other scraps of evidence while John was left to pace outside. 

Mycroft continued to periodically text Y/N, looking for updates on the West case. Y/N ignored them each time. 

With five hours remaining, Sherlock emerged. John and Y/N looked to him eagerly, wanting to help. He barely looked up from the article in his hand. 

“Just take the meeting.” 

“Sorry, what?” Y/N asked, confused. 

“I can hear you ignoring him from all the way in there. Go get more details on the stupid case.” He said, waving his hand at Y/N as if dismissing a class. 

“You’re sure you don’t need me here?” She asked, feeling a bit hurt. 

“Yes, yes, quite sure.” He said before wandering back into the kitchen. 

Y/N grabbed her coat, a bad mood settling over her. John hugged her goodbye and she left with a little less spring in her step. 

Another half hour gone saw Y/N sat in Mycroft’s office, waiting. Her sour mood worsened with every moment that went by and she was doing nothing at all. She wasn’t helping Sherlock, she wasn’t solving her own case, she was just...sitting. She was sitting there watching the clock as some innocent woman’s life hung in the balance. 

It was maddening. 

“Ah, Y/N, just the woman I was hoping to see.” Mycroft’s posh accent intoned as he entered the office, looking distractedly at a file in his hand. 

“Any progress on the case?” He asked, leaning on the desk. 

Displeased with the power dynamic imposed by his spot, Y/N stood and faced him, evening out their height difference as much as possible. 

“That’s why I’m here. I’d like some more information about Mr. West. To help my investigation.” She said. 

“Oh, erm,” He moved around to sit in the big chair behind the desk and motioned for her to take her seat again. She obliged, and took out a small notepad. “Let’s see, 27. Clerk at Vauxhall Cross, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington program in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK, no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies. Last seen by his fiancée at 10:30 yesterday evening. He told her he had to go out and meet someone before leaving.” 

“The body was found at Battersea, correct? Did he get on the train?” Y/N asked. 

“No,” Mycroft answered. “He had an Oyster card, but it hadn’t been used.” 

“Was a ticket found on the body?” 

“No.” 

“Right,” She said, closing her notebook. “Thank you, Mycroft.” 

She rose to shake his hand, and he did the same. “How is Sherlock getting on by the way?” Mycroft asked. 

“Fine, he’s...fine.” She said shortly. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Mycroft asked wryly. 

“Never was paradise my dear Spycroft.” She said, turning to go. “I’ll be in touch about the case.” 

Y/n stepped out onto the street and her phone buzzed. 

_ Need second pair of eyes.  _

_ Ask John.  _ She replied. Y/N knew she was being petty, but somehow she didn’t mind. She wanted Sherlock to know she was annoyed. 

Her phone rang. 

“Hello-” 

“You’re not still angry about Molly, are you?” He interrupted. 

“No, Sherlock, I’m not. That was still a shitty thing to do to her though.” Y/N sighed. 

“Then use your brain! You’re one of the few non-idiots around me and you won’t think when I ask you too!” He said frustrated. 

“Fine.” She growled. “You said he left skin flakes on the sneakers, right?”

“Eczema, yes.” Sherlock said impatiently.

“Well if we could tell his skin condition from his shoes, maybe someone else knew too. Someone who had it out for him and-” 

“-and could slip something into his medication.” Sherlock finished.

“You’re bloody brilliant.” He said before the line clicked.

Y/N smiled, letting go of her grumpiness. He was learning, and hopefully he’d be able to keep his friends as he went. Besides, as annoying as he could be, Sherlock was being himself. And Y/N never hesitated to admit that she liked who that was. 

She got a phone call from Lestrade. 

“Hello Greg.” 

“Bomb squad is on their way to get the woman on the phone.” he said. 

“That’s wonderful!” 

“Come to my office tomorrow morning with Holmes and Watson, alright?” 

“I’ll be there.” She said. 

“See you then. Good night, Y/N.” 

“Good night.” She said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean caring!Sherlock is my weakness? Lies. Vicious lies.   
> In other news, Harold the severed head is the real hero of this story. 
> 
> Also, what do you think of this elusive Jim from IT? He kind of creeps me out to be honest. I don't trust the dude. ;P
> 
> As usual, comment your thoughts and theories and I love you all!


	8. The Great Game Part 2

“What was the point? Why would anyone do this?” Lestrade asked, frustrated and confused. 

The bomber from Baker Street had strapped a woman from Cornwall with a boatload of explosives and sent her instructions through a pager all with the small goal in mind of making Sherlock figure out that the bomber had poisoned Carl Powers himself twenty some years earlier. 

It was sick. 

And also elegant. 

“No, I can’t be the only person in the world that gets bored.” Sherlock answered Lestrade’s question calmly, looking out the window of the DCI’s office. Y/N and John occupied the chairs in front of the his desk, while the investigator himself swiveled back and forth in his chair while he thought. 

The pink phone pinged with another message. Four Greenwich Time Signal Pips played out of the phone. 

“First test passed it would seem. Here’s the second.” Sherlock strode over and showed the three of them a photo displayed on the screen. It was a sleek black Mazda. The license plate read: B JO6 ZHT. 

Y/N heard a cell phone ringing outside the office door. 

“It’s abandoned, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock referred to the car. 

“I’ll see if it’s been reported.” Lestrade picked up the phone of his desk and got to work. 

Sally Donovan opened the door, ringing cell phone in hand. With her usual tact, she said: “Freak, it’s for you.” 

Y/N sent Sally her best death stare, but decided against picking a real fight. Sherlock took the phone and walked out of the office.

Y/N observed Sherlock through the glass wall of the office. She took a tentative, concerned step towards the door. He looked around him, as if trying to find someone watching him. She tapped John on the arm and they left the office together, coming to stand by Sherlock and hear his half of the phone conversation. 

“You’ve stolen another voice, I presume.” said Sherlock. 

Y/N and John shared a look. It was the bomber again. 

“Who are you?” Sherlock’s gaze flickered as he concentrated on something. “What’s that noise?”

Y/N could hear the person talking on the other end, but couldn’t make out the words. In his office, Lestrade hung up the phone. 

“Great! We’ve found it!” 

Sherlock placed the mobile back onto Donovan’s desk. As they left The Yard, he wrapped his hand around Y/N’s arm, whispering to her: “Eight hours.” 

The car from the photo had been abandoned in a lot surrounded by the crumbling walls of what used to be a large building. Ian Monkford, a banker, had hired the car the day before, telling his wife he was going on a business trip he make. 

Donovan harassed John. “You still hanging round him?”

“Yeah, well…”

“You should get yourself a hobby. Stamps, maybe. Model trains, safer.” She deadpanned. Y/N’s spine crawled at the insults but Sherlock went on unphased, so she followed suit.  

Y/N and Sherlock opened the passenger and driver side doors respectively and took a look inside the car. Blood was splattered across the front console and seats. 

“Before you ask, yes, it’s Monkford’s blood. DNA checks out.” Lestrade said. 

Sherlock opened the glove compartment and pulled out the rental company’s card. Y/N saw no more helpful evidence and ducked back out of the car. 

“No body?” She asked. 

“Not yet.” Donovan said. 

“Get a sample sent to the lab.” Sherlock ordered before walking over to a woman nearby. John and Y/N followed, coming to stand on either side of the tall detective. 

“Mrs. Monkford?” 

“Yes.” The woman said tearfully. “Sorry, I’ve already spoken to two policemen.” 

“We’re not with the police, we’re, uh-” John began. 

Sherlock held out his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.” His voice broke and tears welled up in his eyes. “Very old friend of your husband’s. We um, we grew up together.” 

“I’m sorry, who?” She said, blinking. “I don’t think he ever mentioned you.” 

“He must’ve…” Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets. “This is horrible. I mean, I just can’t believe it. I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian. Not a care in the world.” 

“Sorry, my husband has been depressed for months!” She said, disbelievingly. 

A tear dropped down Sherlock’s face. “Really strange that he hired a car. Bit suspicious isn’t it?” 

“No, it isn’t. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that’s all.” Mrs. Monkford said defensively. 

“Ah well, that was Ian! That was Ian all over.” Sherlock agreed. 

“No, it wasn’t.” She insisted. 

Sherlock returned to his normal voice in an instant, dropping the act. “Wasn’t it? Interesting.”  

Sherlock spun around, coat swirling and walked away. Y/N matched his stride. 

“Why did you lie to her?” John asked. 

“People don’t like telling you things.” Sherlock said, pulling off a glove to wipe away his phony tears. 

“But they can’t resist a good contradiction.” Y/N added. 

“Sorry, what?” John asked, not quite following. 

“Sherlock referred to Monkford in the past tense and she joined in.” 

“Bit premature. They’ve only just found the car.” Sherlock quipped. 

“You think she murdered her husband?” John asked. 

“No way.” Y/N said. “A murderer wouldn’t make a mistake like that.” 

“I see,” John said. “No, I don’t. What do I see? 

The three trekked up the hill to their next destination. 

“Where to next?” Y/N asked. 

Sherlock handed her the card he’d taken from the glove compartment. “Janus Cars.” 

 

With six hours remaining on the Monkford case, Y/N and John sat across from the sleazy man in charge of Janus Cars while Sherlock wandered the small office, looking around and pretending to be clueless. 

“Mr. Monkford hired the car yesterday, correct?” Y/N asked, pencil poised above her notepad. 

The owner, Mr. Ewart, sent Y/N a creepy smile that he surely thought was charming, but only made her pull her coat tighter around her. His shirt was unbuttoned one button too far and he slouched in his cushioned office chair, making his gut even more prominent. He had a tan from somewhere that was definitely not England, and occasionally scratched at his left arm where he’d recently been given a shot. His posture was that of a self-assured man with either too much or too little sense of how much he was disliked. 

“Yeah, lovely motor. Mazda Rx8. Wouldn’t mind one of them myself.” He said. 

“Is that one?” Sherlock asked simply, pointing to a photo on the wall before moving around the desk to get a closer look. 

“No, they’re all Jags.” The man turned to consult the photo, allowing Sherlock an opportunity to look more closely at him without being noticed. “I can see you’re not a car man, eh?” 

“But surely you can afford one. A Mazda, I mean.” Sherlock said once the man had turned back around.

“Yeah that’s a fair point.” He said before sitting up straighter and bragging. “You know how it is. It’s like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the licorice Allsorts, when does it all stop?” 

“But you didn’t know Mr. Monkford?” John asked. 

“No, he was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. Have no idea what happened to him, poor sod!” 

Sherlock did a half loop around to stand behind Y/N’s chair. Y/N leaned back ever so slightly, feeling warmth radiating from his body. He rested his hand on the back and leaned forward, dropping the facade. 

“Nice holiday, Mr. Ewart?” Sherlock asked. 

“Eh?” Ewart asked. 

“You’ve been away, haven’t you?” Sherlock pressed. 

“Oh, th-the, er-” Ewart stammered, gesturing to his face. “No, it’s the sun beds, I’m afraid, yeah.” The tan line at his neck said otherwise, but Y/N made no sign that she had caught on to Ewart’s lie.

He looked at Y/N, and then John, avoiding Sherlock’s piercing stare “Too busy to get away. My wife would love it, though, bit of sun.”

“Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?” Sherlock asked loudly. 

“What?” The man questioned. 

“Well, I noticed one on the way in, and I haven’t got any change. I’m gasping.” Sherlock explained, offering Mr. Ewart a few bills. 

Ewart took out his wallet and checked the change pocket. “No, sorry.” He said, looking skeptically up at Sherlock. Y/N caught a peek of the contents of the wallet, noting the peso notes inside.

“Oh, well. Thank you very much for your time Mr. Ewart. You’ve been very helpful.” Sherlock said, leaving the little square room as Y/N and John shook hands with Ewart. 

“What was that all about?” John asked as they weaved through the cars in the garage. 

“I needed a look inside Ewart’s wallet.” Sherlock explained. 

“Why?”

“Because Ewart was lying.” Y/N answered. 

~

Y/N filled a pipette with hydrogen peroxide and dropped one drop of it carefully onto the sample of Monkford’s blood from the car. Sherlock watched, smiling as the blood fizzed when the solution came in contact with the blood. 

“It was frozen.” Y/N said. 

“Call Lestrade-” Sherlock began, but was interrupted by the ringing of the pink phone. 

He held a finger to his lips, telling her to stay silent as he answered and put the call on speaker phone. 

“Hello.” He said. 

“The clue’s in the name. Janus Cars.” A man’s voice said. Y/N could hear traffic in the background. 

“Why would you be giving me a clue?” Sherlock asked.

“Why does anyone do anything?” The man responded. “Because I’m bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock.” 

“Then talk to me in your own voice.” Sherlock challenged. 

“Patience.” 

The line went dead with the bull buzzing of a dial tone.

Y/N, like Sherlock, longed to find out what the bomber’s real voice sounded like. She had a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that it would be just like the voice Samantha Hope had described. Moriarty’s voice. 

Sherlock pulled out his phone and called Lestrade, agreeing to meet in the Police impound at Monkford’s car in an hour. 

Finishing each other’s sentences, minds working at top speed, Sherlock and Y/N explained how Monkford had been in deep trouble and turned to Janus Cars, like the two-faced God, to help him disappear. Mr. Ewart, with his peso notes in his wallet, tan line, and booster shots, had taken Monkford to a new life in Colombia. Mrs. Monkford, of course, knew the plan as well, ready to cash in her husband’s life insurance at a moment’s notice. 

“Now go and arrest them, Inspector, that’s what you do best.” Sherlock told Lestrade. “We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved.”

Sherlock flipped up the collar on his coat and strutted down the hall, Y/N and John at his side. 

“I am on fire!” He cried triumphantly. 

Y/N met John’s gaze, sharing concern over Sherlock’s over-confidence. 

Within seconds of Sherlock’s website post: “Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Colombia,” the pink phone rang. 

With another innocent victim saved, The trio headed to a nearby caff for rest and refuel. 

Y/N cradled her cup of tea and took a few sips while John ate what was technically breakfast, even though none of them had been to bed the night before. 

“Feeling better?” Sherlock asked. 

Y/N smiled, happy to see him asking after the health of someone else. Sherlock noticed her smile and tilted his head at her, confused. She shrugged, the smile broadening. Sherlock allowed the corner of his mouth to quirk up before looking back at John.

“Mhm. We’ve hardly stopped for breath since this thing started.” 

John thought for a minute. “Has it occured to you-” 

“Probably.” Sherlock cut him off. 

“No, has it occured to you that the bomber’s playing a game with you?” John asked. “The envelope. Breaking into the other flat, the dead kid’s shoes, it’s all meant for you.” 

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock said. 

Y/N put down her mug. “Moriarty.” She said. 

Sherlock studied her face for a moment. “Perhaps.” He replied. 

The pink phone pinged with three pips and another photo. It was of an older woman. Her white hair was cut short and she wore heavy makeup to conceal wrinkles. 

“Well that could be anybody.” Sherlock said. 

“She looks familiar…” Y/N mused, unable to place where she’d seen the woman before. 

“Lucky for you two, I’ve been more than a little unemployed.” John said with a pleased smile at knowing more than his friends for once.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked. 

“Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly.” John continued, getting up and switching on the caff’s old wall mounted  TV. The woman, host of some sort of daytime television show appeared, talking about handbags. 

The pink phone rang. Sherlock answered, listening with a troubled expression and only asking one question.

“Why are you doing this?” He asked. 

Y/N cocked her head questioningly at him. He only shook his head and hung up the phone, his countenance serious. 

The news anchor on the TV spoke over clips of a makeover show. “Continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality Connie Prince. Miss Prince, famous for her makeover programmes, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead...” 

“So, dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden.” Sherlock ran down the case file as John, Y/N and Lestrade stood around the body in the morgue. “Nasty wound. Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream...Good Night Vienna.” 

“I suppose.” John said, examining the corpse. 

“It can’t be that simple.” Y/N said. “There’s got to be something more here. Why else would the bomber be pointing us at it?” 

Sherlock flipped open his magnifying glass and peered first at Ms. Prince’s cut hand and then her forehead. Y/N leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder and observed as well. The cut on her hand was fresh, likely around the same time she died. On her forehead were small injections marks from doses of botox. 

“John?” Sherlock asked. “Cut on her hand, it’s deep. Would have bled a lot, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“It’s clean, though.” Y/N pointed out. “Fresh, too.” 

Sherlock snapped the magnifying glass shut. “How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?” He asked. 

“Oh, eight, ten days.” John estimated. “The cut was made later.” 

“After she was dead?” Lestrade wondered. 

“Must have been.” Sherlock said with a half smirk. 

“Only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman’s system.” Sherlock said. He met Y/N’s gaze with a strong look that told her clearly she was not to answer, even though both of them had already solved it. She complied despite not knowing why. 

“You want to help, right?” Sherlock asked John.

“Of course.” 

“Connie Prince’s background, family history, everything. Get me data.” Sherlock ordered. 

“Right.” John nodded, wasting no time. 

Y/N and Sherlock were out the door when Lestrade’s voice stopped them. “There’s something else that we haven’t thought of.” 

“Is there?” Sherlock said flatly. 

“Yes. Why is he doing this, the bomber?” Lestrade inquired. 

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned slowly as Lestrade continued: “If this woman’s death was suspicious, why point it up?” 

“Good Samaritan.” Sherlock offered. 

“Who press-gangs suicide bombers?” Lestrade challenged. 

“Bad Samaritan?” Y/N added lamely. 

“I’m serious, here.” Lestrade insisted. “Listen, I’m cutting you slack here ― both of you ― I’m trusting you, but somewhere, some poor bastard’s covered in Semtex and just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me, what are we dealing with?” 

Sherlock and Y/N answered at the same time. 

“Something new.”

“Something bad.”

~

A corkboard was mounted on the wall above the couch in 221B. It had notes from the past two cases and several photos of Connie Prince both dead and alive. Sherlock paced back and forth while Lestrade watched and Y/N sat in Sherlock’s chair with her tea, thinking. 

“Connection, connection, connection. There must be a connection.” Sherlock muttered. “Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The bomber knew him, admitted that he knew him. The bomber’s iPhone was in the stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire judging by her accent.” Sherlock switched from one area of the board to other as he recounted each case. 

“What’s he doing? Working his way around the world, showing off?” Sherlock wondered. 

The pink phone rang. Sherlock answered immediately and put the call on speaker phone. 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” An old woman said slowly as the line was fed to her. “Joining the dots.” 

Y/N rose slowly from the chair and came to stand with her friends, listening in attentively. 

“Three hours.” The woman gasped. “Boom. Boom.” She said with a sob before the line disconnected. 

Sherlock shoved the phone away and steepled his fingers underneath his nose, letting out a frustrated breath. Y/N’s mind was working at full speed, trying to puzzle out the link between the three cases. She looked to her left at Sherlock and saw the tension coiled tightly in his shoulders and furrowed brow. 

Without a word she placed a hand on his shoulder, moving her thumb back and forth soothingly. His posture relaxed minimally, but he hadn’t shied away from the contact, which made Y/N feel almost special. 

“Ah!” Sherlock said softy, turning around and grabbing his mobile from the desk. 

While he dialed and spoke to someone on the other end, Mrs. Hudson came up the steps with some biscuits and her signature “Hoo-hoo!” 

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson.” Lestrade greeted fondly. 

“Hi Mum.” Y/N said, giving the shorter woman a warm hug. 

Mrs. Hudson turned to look at the cork board, spying the photos of Connie Prince. She made a little tsk-ing noise and frowned. 

“It’s a real shame. I liked her.” She said sadly. “She taught you how to do your colours.” 

“Colours?” Lestrade asked.

“You know, what goes best with what.” Mrs. Hudson explained. “I should never wear cerise apparently. Drains me.” She said matter-of-factly. 

Sherlock hung up his call and returned to them. “Who’s that?” Lestrade asked. 

“Home office.” Sherlock answered. “Well, home secretary actually. Owes me a favor.” 

“She’s a pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much.” Mrs. Hudson referred to Ms. Prince. “They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. It’s silly, isn’t it?” She giggled. “Did you ever see her show?” 

Sherlock retrieved his laptop. “Not until now.” 

According to the papers and the fan site, Connie Prince and her brother weren’t exactly the picture of amiable siblings. Y/N suspected that the brother may have been behind Connie’s untimely end. 

Sherlock’s phone rang. 

“John.” Whilst listening to the doctor, Sherlock motioned for Y/N to follow him as he grabbed his coat and left. 

“D’you have a professional looking camera?” He asked her, hailing a taxi. 

“Are you Mr. Prince?” Y/N asked, entering the posh living room, camera bag slung over her shoulder. Sherlock, her “assistant,” followed, carrying a flash bulb and some other photo-journalist looking props. 

“Yes.” The portly older man standing in front of a mirror turned to face them.

“So pleased to meet you.” She said personably, shaking his hand. 

“Yes, thank you.” Kenny Prince replied. 

“My condolences-” She began. 

“Yes, yes, very kind.” He dismissed quickly.

John cleared his throat, beckoning Y/N and Sherlock over. Y/N busied herself with the camera while John whispered: “You were right. The poison got into her system another way.” 

“Right, are we all set?” Mr. Prince prompted. 

“Erm, yes. Shall we…?” John ushered Y/N and Sherlock closer to where Kenny Prince was posing by the mantle. 

Y/N took several photos in quick succession, getting closer to the man’s face. His blinked, grimacing. “Not too close. I’m raw from crying.” 

A hairless sphynx cat wound its way past Sherlock and Y/N’s feet, meowing loudly. “Oh, who’s this?” Sherlock asked. 

“Sekhmet.” Prince introduced. “Named after the Egyptian goddess.” 

“How sweet!” Y/N cooed.

“Yes, a little present to Connie from yours truly.” Prince lifted up the cat, cuddling it to his chest. 

“Sherlock,” John nudged. “A light reading?” 

“Oh, er-” Sherlock fumbled with the contraption before flashing it suddenly in Prince’s face, stunning him. “2.8.”

“Bloody hell!” Prince exclaimed as Y/N took more photos, flash strobing. “What are you playing at?” 

“Actually, I think we got what we came for.” John excused, directing his friends to the door. “Come on, Sherlock, Y/N. We’ve got deadlines. For the paper. Yeah.” He lied. 

John laughed triumphantly as the three strode down the street away from the large home. 

“You think it was the cat.” Sherlock commented. “It wasn’t the cat.” 

“What?” John looked over to his friend. “Yes, oh yeah it is. It’s how the tetanus got into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant.” He explained. 

“Lovely idea.” Sherlock teased. 

“No, he coated it onto the claws of her cat.” John insisted. “It’s a new pet, bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn’t...” 

“I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it’s too random and clever to be the brother.” Sherlock disputed.

John chuckled. “He murdered his sister for her money.” 

“Did he?” 

“Didn’t he?” 

“Nope.” Sherlock said. “It was revenge.” 

“Who wanted revenge?” John asked curiously. 

“Raoul, the houseboy.” Sherlock revealed.

Y/N’s eyes lit up as the answer clicked in her mind. “Connie Prince always made fun of her brother, bullying him endlessly. Eventually they had a fight when he couldn’t take it anymore. We saw it all on the website. With the threat of Connie disinheriting her brother, Raoul, who’s grown rather used to a certain posh lifestyle-”  

“Wait a second.” John interrupted, halting their walk. “What about the disinfectant on the claws?”

“Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed within an inch of its life.” Sherlock explained. “You smell of disinfectant. No, the cat doesn’t come into it. Raoul’s internet records do, though. I hope we can get a cab from here.” Sherlock thought aloud, wandering ahead. 

John scowled, disappointed in his fruitless deduction. Y/N squeezed his arm reassuringly. “I thought the cat deduction was really rather good.” She said. “Sherlock just sees these things like an eagle.” 

“You do too.” John said sorely. 

“Just takes practice.” She intoned encouragingly. “And you’re getting better by the day.” 

John gave a small smile, and they hurried to catch up with Sherlock and his long, quick strides. 

~

One hour remained when the intrepid trio arrived back at Scotland Yard with a large file of Raoul de Santos’s internet purchases and case notes in hand. He had used the same poison that the bomber used to kill Carl Powers: botulinum toxin. By upping Connie’s monthly botox dose all at once, he had succeeded in killing her, as botox is a diluted form of botulinum. 

Lestrade was content with the case’s conclusion. They were about to step into his office when Y/N put a hand on Sherlock’s chest to stop him. 

“Why did you have us wait?” She asked, peering at his face with a serious expression. “We both knew almost from the beginning how this was done. Connecting the dots wouldn’t have taken so long had we said something before John’s wild goose chase. Sherlock, that old woman has been there all this time.” She pointed out, brow furrowed in guilt. 

“I knew I could save her.” Sherlock argued. “I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I - we solved the case quickly, that gave me time to get on with other things. Don’t you see? We’re one up on him.”  

Sherlock brushed by her and into Lestrade’s office. She waited a moment longer, wallowing in her concern over this over-confidence he was developing. The bomber was dangerous and she had trouble believing that they could possibly be even one tiny step ahead of the criminal mastermind they were facing. 

With the solution to the case posted, the pink phone rang. 

“Hello?” Sherlock answered. 

“Help me.” Cried the voice of the old woman. 

“Tell us where you are. Address?” Sherlock instructed calmly. 

“He was so...His voice…” She began. Y/N tensed in fear of the risk this woman was taking. She stepped forward and gripped the edge of the desk in suspense. 

“No, no, no! Tell me nothing about him. Nothing.” Sherlock yelled. 

“He sounded so soft.” She said before being abruptly cut off by a dial tone. 

Sherlock slowly lowered the phone as John and Lestrade looked at each other hopelessly. Sherlock’s expression was passive with a hint of shock. His jaw clenched in frustration and anger. Y/N’s heart sank to her shoes. 

They’d failed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needed to be knocked down a peg, but I do hate how it had to happen. :(
> 
> Just a quick warning: no new chapter next week, sorry guys. 
> 
> I will be off at my summer program reading books and talking about them with fellow book nerds! Whoo hoo!


	9. The Great Game Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!  
> Here is the dramatic conclusion to the first series! I hope you like it...

Sherlock, John, and Y/N sat solemnly in 221B, watching the news. The explosion had ripped through a whole block of flats in the old woman’s building, killing twelve people. The authorities were calling the incident another gas leak. 

“He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once he put himself in the firing line.” Sherlock mused. 

“What’d you mean?” John asked. 

“Normally he’s just the organizer. No direct contact.” Y/N explained. 

“What, like the Connie Prince murder, he arranged that?” John puzzled out. “So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up like booking a holiday?” 

“Novel.” Sherlock breathed. 

“Why is he playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?” 

A hint of a smirk played on Sherlock’s lips. “I think he wants to be distracted.” 

Y/N took a deep breath and pinched her nose, trying to keep her irritation at bay. John mirrored similar behavior, rolling his eyes. 

“I hope you’ll be very happy together.” John said sarcastically, getting up from his chair.

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock asked, confused. 

Y/N threw up her hands in frustration. “People are dying, Sherlock! Actual people with lives and families and friends!” 

“Do you care about that at all?” John added. 

“Will caring about them help save them?” Sherlock asked. 

“Nope.” John replied. 

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake.” Sherlock said stubbornly. 

“You find that easy do you?” 

“Yes, very.” Sherlock snapped. “Is that news to you?” 

“No.” Y/N said in a small, sad voice. 

“I’ve disappointed you.” Sherlock said to both of them. 

“That’s good.” John said facetiously. “Good deduction there.” 

“Don’t make people into heroes, John.” Sherlock quipped, fingers steepled in front of his face. “Heroes don’t exist and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.” 

Y/N opened her mouth the protest his final comment when the pink phone dinged. 

Sherlock spoke softly. “Excellent.” 

The two pips were accompanied by a picture of the Thames. “South Bank, somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo.” Sherlock deduced within seconds. “You check the papers, I’ll look online.”

Y/N rose tiredly while John simply stood where he was, his vexation clear from his tense posture. 

“Ah, you’re angry with me so you won’t help.” Sherlock said with a tone of superiority. “Not much cop, this caring lark.” He mocked, scrolling through the search results on his mobile. 

John sat next Y/N on the couch and reluctantly assisted her in browsing the headlines. 

“Ah, ‘Man found on the tracks.’ Andrew West.” Y/N read aloud. Sherlock ignored her. 

One call to Lestrade later, the trio found themselves at a crime scene in Battersea. The dead body of a man lay on the pebbly river bank. He wore only his pants and a shirt, both of which were cheaply made and a bit too large on him, likely some sort of standardized uniform. Y/N concluded that the man was a security guard based on the calluses on his feet and protruding veins in his leg, coupled with the flabbiness of his backside. All three observations pointed to a job with lots of walking and sitting. 

The watch on his wrist had its alarm set for a night shift and the buttons were hardly touched, indicating that he’d set the alarm a long time ago and hadn’t changed it since. The sodden wad of ticket stubs found in the pocket of his pants ― almost unrecognizable from the man’s time in the river ― showed Y/N that he worked in some sort of gallery or museum. His badge had been torn off of the uniform, which suggested that his workplace was well-known. There were bruises on the man’s face: around his mouth and on his temples as well. He’d been brutally strangled to death. 

“That lost Vermeer painting is a fake.” Sherlock announced. 

“What painting?” Lestrade slowed him down. “What are you on about?”

“Haven’t you seen the papers? Dutch old master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago. Now it’s turned up. Worth £30 million.” Sherlock explained impatiently. 

“Okay, so what has that got to do with the stiff?” 

“Everything.” Sherlock smirked. “Have you ever heard of the Golem?” 

“That’s a Jewish folk story.” Y/N remembered. “It’s a gigantic man made out of clay that follows the orders of the person who creates it.” 

“It’s also the name of an assassin.” Sherlock continued. “Real name Oscar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world. That-” Sherlock pointed to the body, “Is his trademark style.” 

“So this is a hit?” Lestrade questioned. 

“Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.” Sherlock illustrated. 

“But what has this got to do with that painting? I don’t see-” 

“You do see, you just don’t observe!” Sherlock exclaimed. 

“Alright!” John shouted. “Calm down.” He shot Sherlock a glare before turning to Y/N. “Want to take us through it?” 

She smiled widely and voiced all of her deductions aloud, Lestrade and John listened intently. Sherlock, though annoyed he wasn’t the one showing off, was pleased to see that at least she wasn’t slowing him down. 

“I just checked, and the Hickman Gallery is missing one of its attendants: Alex Woodbridge.” She gestured to the body. “Tonight’s the unveiling of the rediscovered Vermeer. The only reason someone would pay the Golem to murder this ordinary man is if he knew something that would get in the way of the owner getting their £30 million.” 

“The painting is a fake.” Sherlock finished. 

John looked at his friends with an awed smile. “Fantastic.” 

“Meretricious.” Sherlock corrected. 

“And a happy new year.” Lestrade added ever so helpfully. 

~

Sherlock and John were off in a cab to learn more about Woodbridge and the Golem while Y/N finally heeded Mycroft’s texts and went to find the Bruce-Partington Plans. The first step was to speak with the last person who saw Andrew West alive: his fiancée Lucy.

The two women sat on Lucy’s couch in the small white living room. Lucy was a pretty young woman, made to look smaller and older by her grief. Her hair was disheveled and the bland colors of her sweater seemed at odds with the red curtains and bright decor of the apartment. Y/N could see the former liveliness of the room, but felt deeply the empty sadness that now hung over it. 

“He wouldn’t.” Lucy said shakily. “He just wouldn’t.” 

“He hadn’t fallen in with a bad crowd? Badly in debt? Nothing like that?” Y/N asked gently. 

“Westie wasn’t a traitor.” Lucy insisted. 

“You have you understand that-” 

“That’s what they think, isn’t it, his bosses?” She said, angry tears welling up in her eyes. “Everyone’s got debts and Westie wouldn’t want to clear them by selling out his country!” She scoffed.

“Of course.” Y/N soothed. She believed Lucy. “Can you tell me exactly what happened that night?”

“We were having a night in.” She said with a watery smile. “Just watching a DVD. He normally falls asleep, you know, but he sat through this one.” She paused, the sadness returning. “He was quiet. Out of the blue he said he just had to go see someone.” 

“Did you have any idea who it was?” 

Lucy shook her head and sobbed. Y/N decided it was best to stop the interview there, beginning to talk about nicer things until Lucy had dried her eyes. 

On the way out of the flat, a man on a bike came up to the door. He wore a knit cap and a fluorescent biker’s vest. He looked to be a few years older than Lucy, probably in his mid-to-late thirties. 

“Hi, Luce. You okay, love?” He asked, concerned at the sight of her tear-stained face. 

“Yeah.” She said. 

“Who’s this?” The man asked, eyeing the CSI warily. 

“Y/N Hudson.” Y/N answered with cold formality, buttoning her coat. 

“This is my brother, Joe.” Lucy introduced. “Y/N is trying to find out what happened to Westie, Joe.” Lucy explained. 

“You with the police?” He asked. 

“You could say that, yes.” Y/N replied. 

“Tell them to get off their arses, will you? It’s bloody ridiculous.” Joe said, looking at her sideways. 

“I’ll let them know.” 

Joe nodded before going into the flat. Y/N said goodbye to Lucy and began to walk away. She was halted by Lucy speaking again. 

“He didn’t steal those things Ms. Hudson. I knew Westie, he was a good man...He was my good man.” She turned and went inside. 

Y/N was figuring out the next step in her investigation when her phone buzzed. 

_ Meet at Hickman Gallery.  _ Read a text from Sherlock. 

Y/N hailed the nearest cab and was on her way. 

_ Fill me in.  _ She requested.

_ Woodbridge was amateur astronomer. Worked with astronomy professor, both killed by Golem for figuring out painting is fake. Found Golem, but he escaped before we could get information. Waiting for the call.  _

_ Be there in 10.  _ She said. 

 

Lestrade, John, Y/N, Sherlock, and the gallery owner Mrs. Wenceslas, were gathered around the painting. Sherlock was feverishly researching on his phone while Wenceslas protested his every suggestion of the painting’s fraudulence. 

“You know about this don’t you? This is you, isn’t it?” Sherlock accused her. 

“Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?” 

The pink phone rang. 

Sherlock answered immediately. “The painting is a fake.” He declared. 

The other line was silent. 

“It’s a fake. That’s why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed.” Sherlock added. 

More silence. 

“Oh, come on, proving it’s just a detail. The painting is a fake. I’ve solved it, I’ve figured it out. It’s a fake! That’s the answer! That’s why they were killed!” 

Y/N put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as the silence persisted. He took a deep breath. 

“Okay, I’ll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?” 

The high voice of a small child echoed from the speaker. “Ten…” 

“It’s a kid! Oh God, it’s a kid.” Lestrade panicked. 

Sherlock and Y/N both leaned closer to the painting, studying it. 

“Nine…” 

Sherlock whispered to himself. “The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it. How? How!” 

“Eight…”

Sherlock shouted at Mrs. Wenceslas. “This kid will die. Tell me why it’s a fake. Tell me!” He bellowed. “No, shut up! It only works if I figure it out.” 

“Seven…” 

Y/N scanned the painting over and over again, thinking about what John and Sherlock had said about the case. Professor and guard. Astronomy. Astronomy! The night sky...the stars…

“Six…”

“Woodbridge knew, but how?” Sherlock shouted. 

“Five…” 

Y/N’s eyes widened, and she grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “Sherlock it’s-” 

“No!” He cried in anguish. “I have to figure it out.” 

She bit her tongue, panic and fear coursing through her veins. Sherlock looked at her, not the painting, and she tried with all her might to develop telepathy in an instant. 

“Four…” 

“Oh!” He said, realization dawning. He walked away from the painting and pressed a few keys on his phone. 

“Three…” 

“This is beautiful. I love this!” Sherlock said with glee. 

“Two…” 

“Sherlock!” Y/N yelled. 

He grabbed the pink phone and said four magical words. “The Van Buren Supernova.” 

“Please, is somebody there? Somebody help me.” The little boy cried. 

Sherlock handed Lestrade the pink phone. “There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up.” 

Sherlock turned back to the painting. “The Van Buren Supernova, so-called. Exploded star. Only appeared in the sky in 1858.” Sherlock explained. 

“So how could it have been painted in the 1640s?” John laughed breathlessly. Y/N sighed, letting some of the tension out of her neck and shoulders. Another one solved. 

~

Once again, Y/N was sat with Sherlock and John in Lestrade’s office while he questioned Mrs. Wenceslas. 

“It was just an idea. A spark which he blew into a flame.” 

“Who?” Sherlock asked. Y/N sat up straighter in interest.

“I don’t know.” 

Lestrade scoffed. 

“It’s true!” She insisted. “It took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people. His people.”

Y/N and Sherlock looked at each other, thinking the same thing. 

“There was never any real contact. Just messages. Whispers.” Wenceslas said. 

“And did those whispers have a name?” Sherlock practically growled. 

She nodded slowly, painfully. “Moriarty.”

 

~

Andrew West: a smart young man beloved by his fiancée, and on track to bigger things at his job. 

Then he had his skull smashed in by a train. Supposedly.

Upon her visit to the sight where the body was found, Y/N came to a different conclusion. There was barely any blood on the tracks, and the body lay at a curve in the route. He hadn’t been killed by the train. He’d been killed before landing in Battersea.

So then what, or rather who, killed him? 

The Bruce-Partington plans hadn’t left the country, so the person in possession of them likely didn’t know what to do with them. Y/N was pretty sure she knew where to find the elusive memory stick. 

It was time to pay West’s would-have-been brother-in-law a visit. His behavior at Lucy’s place had been less than innocent and Y/N wanted a look at his flat. 

Naturally, she broke in. 

To her surprise, she found John and Sherlock already inside. 

“Look at this, a police officer breaking and entering. I must be rubbing off on you. Tsk tsk.” Sherlock teased. 

“Forensic scientist.” She corrected. “And how long have you been working my case?” 

“Offered to me first, remember?” Sherlock pointed out. “I wouldn’t give up on a case like this just to spite my brother.” 

Y/N moved over to the window and looked out over the train tracks. “Perfect.” She said to herself. As predicted, the windowsill below had small splotches of blood. Andrew West’s blood. 

“Right.” John said shortly. “Not that you’ve both done the exact same thing, can someone tell me why Joe killed West?” 

The front door opened and shut. 

“Let’s ask him.” Sherlock suggested. 

John tread lightly over to the landing and greeted Joe with his gun. 

A small bit of yelling later, they all stood about the living room, listening to Joe’s confession. 

“He wasn’t meant to…” Joe’s voice broke. “What’s Lucy going to say? Jesus.” 

“Why did you kill him?” John asked. 

“It was an accident. I swear it was.” 

“Stealing the plans? That was an accident as well?” Y/N asked sarcastically.

“I started dealing drugs.” He admitted. “I don’t know how it started. I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands. Serious people. 

“Then at Westie’s engagement do, he really started opening up after a few pints. He told me about these missile plans. Beyond top secret. Waved the memory stick right in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and whatnot.

“But there it was. And I thought it could be worth a fortune. It was pretty easy to get the thing off of him he was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could tell that he knew.” 

Joe looked at Y/N regretfully. 

“What happened?” She asked. 

“We got into a fight and he fell down the stairs-” He took a breath. “I was going to call an ambulance, but it was too late. I just didn’t have a clue what to do. So I dragged him in here.” 

“Then a neat little idea popped into your head.” Sherlock prompted. 

Joe went on to admit putting the body on the roof of the train, where it would have gone on forever had the track not curved, throwing the body off. 

“Do you still have the stick?” Y/N asked. 

Joe nodded. 

“Fetch it for me, if you wouldn’t mind.” Sherlock ordered. 

When Joe was out of the room, the three huddled together and spoke in low whispers. 

“Distraction over, the game goes on.” Sherlock said. 

“Maybe that’s over too. We’ve heard nothing from the bomber.” John suggested.

“Five pips, remember, John?” Sherlock argued. “It’s a countdown. We’ve only had four.” 

 

Back at 221B, Y/N placed the memory stick on the table before collapsing onto the couch. The consequences of not sleeping for three days were catching up with her. She sighed, stretching her out her limbs and allowing her eyes to close, if only for a moment. 

Sherlock spoke, his tone unusually caring. “Go home and get some sleep. I’ll take the plans to Mycroft.” 

“But the last case-” 

“I’ll text you if we hear from Moriarty.” He assured her. 

She nodded sleepily. Sherlock helped her up and put on her coat. In her tired haze, Y/N saw nothing odd in his desire for her to go home, she simply thought it was a rare moment of caring. 

For all of Sherlock’s effort to get her home and comfortable, Y/N didn’t even make it past the corner of Baker Street. 

She was grabbed from behind as a cloth with the distinct scent of chloroform was pressed over her nose. She struggled weakly against her captor as her consciousness faded…

Y/N awoke slowly, her whole body feeling heavy and slow. She blinked at her surroundings. She was in a small tiled alcove. The smell of chlorine was strong. She must have been near an indoor swimming pool. 

Everything was silent. 

It was difficult to sit up due to something strapped tightly to her body. She looked down and saw the winking lights and wires of a bomb across her entire torso, covered by a large winter coat. She gasped as panic began to seize her. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to try to claw the vest off of her and risk explosion or stand still and wait for death. A voice ― coming through an earpiece ― spoke to her. 

“Good morning muffin.” 

The voice was beautiful, like a song, but also sleepy, like it could hypnotize you if you weren’t careful. Y/N had heard it somewhere before…

Oh. 

This was the beautiful soft voice that the old woman had described. She’d heard this voice in Molly’s lab a mere two days before.

“Moriarty.” She greeted. “Can I call you Jim?”

“Smart girl.” He purred. Her skin crawled at the compliment. 

“What do you want?” She asked. 

“I want to play, little minx.” He said. “You’ve been helping Sherlock. At first, you know, I only wanted to watch him dance, but now...well you look so pretty when you solve crimes. The both of you. Now I want to see the look on his face when he sees you all dressed up like this.” He chuckled malevolently. 

“What are you going to do to him?” She asked protectively. 

“Oh nothing I won’t do to you too, princess.” 

Y/N felt like throwing up. 

“When I say ‘go,’ walk out onto the deck and then just say what I say, or you know, ‘boom.’” He said with glee. 

She heard a door open and close, followed by footsteps. 

“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present.” Said Sherlock’s familiar deep voice. 

Y/N cared deeply about Sherlock, more deeply than she had realized. Obviously as friend, but perhaps in another way as well. Her emotions were so jumbled in that moment she didn’t know exactly what she felt, other than that she wanted to save him. 

To save both of them. 

She wanted desperately to keep spending time solving crimes with him and John. To teach him how to understand emotions better. 

To just look at him.

“That’s what it’s all been for, isn’t it?” Sherlock continued. “All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this.” 

“Go.” Said Moriarty. 

Y/N stepped out of the alcove. 

She looked at him, trying to memorize his face and his curls and the color of his eyes.

“Evening.” She repeated after Moriarty. “This is a turn-up, isn’t it Sherlock?” 

“Y/N. What the hell?” He breathed. 

“Bet you never saw this coming.” Y/N parotted, voice surprisingly steady for how much she wanted to weep. 

Y/N saw the sadness that flashed across his face as he stepped closer to her. He thought she was Moriarty. He thought she’d betrayed him. 

It broke her heart. 

Moriarty ordered her to move the coat and show Sherlock the bomb. She did so, repeating the next words. “What would you like me to make her say next?” 

Y/N saw a wobbling pinprick of red light from a sniper’s rifle on her chest. 

“Gottle o’ gear. Gottle o’ gear. Gottle o’ gear.” Her voice shook as she struggled more and more to hold back her fear. 

“Stop it.” Sherlock said, scoping out the pool for Moriarty and the sniper. 

“Nice touch, this.” She said. “The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop Y/N Hudson too.” Her voice wavered. “Stop her heart.” 

Sherlock was mere feet away by then, looking at Y/N as she repeated the criminal’s words. Tears shone in her eyes as she looked at him. He could see she was trying to be strong. 

It broke his heart. 

He turned around, yelling. “Who are you?” 

Y/N’s earpiece was silent. A door opened and shut behind her, at the opposite end of the pool from Sherlock and Y/N.

“I gave you my number.” Moriarty called in his signature melodic tone. “Thought you might call.” 

Y/N heard the sound of slow footsteps, calm and in control. They were at Moriarty’s mercy, and he was well aware of it. She didn’t dare move to look at him, choosing to keep her gaze straight ahead. 

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?” He lilted. 

“Both.” Sherlock replied smoothly as he revealed the gun and aimed it at Moriarty. 

“Jim Moriarty.” The criminal introduced himself. “Hi.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, confused. 

“Jim?” Moriarty repeated. “Jim from the hospital?” 

Y/N watched the realization dawn on Sherlock as he brought his other hand up, holding the gun more securely. 

“Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose, that was rather the point.” Moriarty mused. 

Y/N could hear Moriarty pacing, and was thankful that he hadn’t yet walked any closer to them. She tried her best to breathe steadily as she saw the sniper’s sight move across her chest and up to her neck. She moved her head ever so slightly, looking to Sherlock in fear. His gaze flickered to her, his grip tightening on the handgun. Sherlock’s expression was composed, but she could see the anticipation keeping his shoulders taught. 

“Oh don’t be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.” 

Y/N knew from Sherlock’s sightline and the sound of Moriarty’s voice that the villain had stopped to stand behind her, just a few yards away. 

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see. Like you.” 

“‘Dear Jim,’” Sherlock said. “‘Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister?’ ‘Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to go away to South America?’” 

“Just so.” Moriarty replied, playing along. 

“Consulting criminal.” Sherlock whispered. “Brilliant.” 

“Isn’t it?” Moriarty agreed. “No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will.” 

Sherlock cocked the gun. “I did.” 

“You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way. Both of you.” Moriarty said. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock replied. 

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment.” 

“Yes you did.” 

“Yeah, okay, I did.” Moriarty quipped back. “But the flirting over, Sherlock. Daddy’s had enough now!” He sang, making Y/N’s skin crawl. 

“I’ve shown you what I can do.” Y/N heard Moriarty’s voice and footsteps getting closer. “I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off.” 

The threat was made more frightening by the calm demeanor in which he spoke. Y/N had the distinct feeling he was like the bomb at her chest. Quiet one moment, and explosive at a mere touch. 

“Although I have loved this, this little game of ours.” Moriarty said gleefully, still coming slowly closer. Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stay calm. “Playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?”

“People have died.” Sherlock said seriously. 

“That’s what PEOPLE DO!” Moriarty yelled suddenly, and Y/N flinched, letting out a small sob. 

“I will stop you.” Sherlock promised calmly. 

“No you won’t.” Moriarty said simply. 

Sherlock’s gaze snapped worriedly again to his companion for a moment.

“Are you alright?” He asked Y/N, who stood, trembling.  

Y/N heard Moriarty right behind her, breathing on her neck. “You can talk, princess. Go ahead.” 

She grimaced, but nodded to Sherlock wordlessly. He held out the memory stick for Moriarty.

“Take it.” Said Sherlock. 

“Hmmm? Oh. That? The missle plans.” Moriarty walked past Y/N and took the offering, kissing it. 

He tossed the thumb drive into the pool. 

“Boring!” He sang. “I could have got those anywhere.” 

Y/N’s heart leapt into her throat. Any leverage they may have had was gone. She had no time for tears, only adrenaline coursing through her veins. She looked at Sherlock, who pointed the gun at his foe, despite its uselessness. She looked at Moriarty’s back. A passionate need to save Sherlock ― her Sherlock ― took hold of her heart and mind. Y/N dashed forward and wrapped her arm around Moriarty’s neck, using a foot to kick his knees out from under him. 

Her father had taught her some useful things after all. 

“Sherlock, go!” She yelled. 

To her dismay, the tall detective she cared so much about didn’t move. He stayed put, gun still trained on Moriarty. 

“Good!” The criminal squealed. “Very good!” 

“If that sniper pulls the trigger, we both die.” She said to Moriarty, who struggled mildly in her grasp. “So let him go.” 

Sherlock adjusted his grip on the gun, and Y/N saw his jaw clench. She internally cursed him for being as stubborn as she was. 

“Isn’t she a cinnamon muffin? Sweet and spicy.” Moriarty mocked. “I can see why you keep her around. But then, people get so sentimental about their pets. They’re so touchingly loyal.” 

Sherlock stepped forward as Y/N’s expression became wild with anger. She tightened her arm around his neck and dug her foot into the joint at Moriarty’s knee. 

A red dot appeared on Sherlock’s forehead and Y/N knew her efforts were useless. 

“But oops!” He yelled. “You’ve rather shown your hand, Ms. Hudson.” 

She let Moriarty go roughly, stepping back as her own red dot re-appeared on her chest. 

“Gotcha.” Moriarty intoned. “Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock? Do you?” 

“Oh, let me guess. I get killed.” Sherlock answered. 

“Kill you?” Moriarty made a face. “Mmmm, no. Don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m going to kill you anyway someday. I don’t want to rush it though. I’m saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you.” Moriarty said to Sherlock. 

Moriarty turned and gave Y/N a sickening smile. Her spine went cold and she could swear she saw something moving behind his black eyes. “I’ll burn the heart out of you.” He snarled. 

“I have been reliably informed I don’t have one.” Sherlock countered. 

“But we both know that’s not quite true.” 

Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t look away, and didn’t say anything. 

“Well I’d better be off.” Moriarty said. “It was so nice to have proper chat.” He said, as if they were old friends. 

Sherlock re-aimed the gun at Moriarty’s face. “What if I was to shoot you now? Right now.”

“Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face.” Moriarty demonstrated the face. “‘Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock, I really would. And just a teensy bit...disappointed. And of course you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for very long.”

Moriarty began to walk away. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Catch you...later.” Sherlock replied, keeping the gun trained on his nemesis’s back as he left. 

“No you won’t!” Came the last sing-song call before the door shut.

Neither of them moved at first. Sherlock looked at Y/N, taking a second to see the trauma in her face and the exhaustion in her limbs all covered by her fierce need to be brave. 

He sprung into action, dropping his gun and detaching the bomb from her body. “Are you all right?” He asked frantically. 

“Yeah,” She breathed. “I’m okay.” 

He pulled the coat and the bomb off of her in one motion, sliding them across the pool deck to lay far away from her before retrieving the gun and running out the door after Moriarty. 

Y/N stumbled backwards, breathing heavily now that there was nothing constricting her chest. She swore between gasps and fell to the floor. Spots swam across her vision as the intensity of the last ten minutes caught up with her. She breathed as slowly as she could, regaining her composure. 

Sherlock returned, pacing back and forth in front of her. She reached out her hand to him, feeling an unidentifiable desperation to touch him and remember him and make sure he was real.

“Are you okay?” She asked. 

“Me?” He replied distractedly. “Yeah, fine. I’m fine. Fine.” 

She stood shakily and put a hand on his shoulder, stopping his pacing. “You don’t sound fine.” 

“That er-” He stuttered, looking her in the eye. “That thing that you er, that you did.” He panted. “That erm-” He cleared his throat. “That was erm...good.” 

“And stupid.” She said. “I’m glad no one saw that.” 

“Hmm?” 

“You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk. And Mycroft already teases enough…” She said with a small smile, looking up at him for once, he was standing so close. 

“He would do little else.” Sherlock replied, smiling back. 

Sherlock gently put his hand on her upper arm, placing them in a sort of half-hug. Y/N’s heart began to speed up as she looked at him. His eyes were grey in the low light. His expression was one she hadn’t seen before on him. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and his eyes were tracking across her face, as if studying it. He had a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes were wide, and Y/N could detect a hint of wonder and perhaps trepidation behind his irises. 

Y/N was sure her dilated pupils and racing pulse would give away this new attraction she was feeling for her detective. 

They were interrupted; however, before her secret was revealed. 

A red dot appeared, flickering on her chest once again. Sherlock let go of her arm, and pushed her behind him while still keeping her close. 

“Sorry, dears!” Came Moriarty’s voice yet again. “I’m so changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness.” 

Y/N put a hand on Sherlock’s back, that now familiar feeling of impending death gripping her heart. Sherlock held the gun in one hand, and gently brushed her hand with the other. 

“You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t.” Moriarty warned. “I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.” 

Sherlock squeezed Y/N’s hand before lifting the gun at Moriarty. “Probably my answer has crossed yours.” 

Slowly and steadily, he lowered his hand so that the barrel pointed at the discarded bomb on the tiled floor. All three of them looked at the explosive winking its lights on the floor, one calm, one frightened, and one impressed. 

 To her immense surprise and confusion, “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees began to play. Y/N blinked, and Sherlock looked over his shoulder at her for a moment as the 70s classic echoed around the pool. 

“Do you mind if I get that?” Moriarty sighed, pulling out his mobile which was the source of the music. 

“Oh no, please.” Sherlock replied flatly. “You’ve got the rest of your life.” 

“Hello?” Moriarty answered, looking like a petulant schoolboy as he stood there annoyed with the interruption. “Yes, of course it is. What do you want?” 

The consulting criminal mouthed ‘sorry’ to his captives, and Sherlock mouthed back a reply.

“Say that again!” Moriarty bellowed suddenly, making Y/N start in fear. “Say that again and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you.” He threatened. “Wait.” He said into the phone before lowering it from his face and approaching Sherlock and Y/N. He stopped at the bomb. 

“Sorry,” He said. “Wrong day to die.” 

“Oh. Did you get a better offer?” Sherlock asked. 

“You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock.” Moriarty pledged, turning and slowly walking away again. 

“So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich.” Moriarty said to the person on the phone. “If you don’t, I’ll make you into shoes.” 

With a snap of his fingers, the red dots disappeared. The door slammed behind Moriarty once more. 

“What the hell just happened?” Y/N breathed. 

“Someone changed his mind.” Sherlock answered. “Question is: who?” 

Sherlock pocketed his curiosity for the moment and ushered Y/N out of the building before Moriarty could come back again. 

In the cab returning to Baker Street, Y/N’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Her body was thrumming with emotions, questions, and intense exhaustion. She snapped her gaze away from the window when Sherlock’s larger hand grabbed her own. He pressed his palm against her’s, intertwining their fingers. 

Y/N looked at him, but he was staring out the window as though he hadn’t moved at all. She squeezed his hand in thanks, allowing the anxiety of the last hour begin to ebb away in the comfort of his company. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEELINGS HAVE BEEN REALIZED HOOOOOLLLLY CRAP
> 
> What will our dear heroine do next? Does Sherlock feel the same? Exactly how slow is this slow burn??? WHAT ABOUT ~you know who~ in the next episode?!?!?
> 
> All shall be revealed in time, I promise. <3


	10. Realizations and Occupations

Y/N lay sprawled across her bed on her back; she stretched her arms straight up, holding her book aloft. Upbeat music played softly from the speakers of her laptop on the floor. She wiggled her toes and bounced her foot to the rhythm as she turned page after page. 

Y/N slowed as the book’s close arrived, savoring the ending as much as possible before shutting the novel and holding it to her chest with a contented sigh. She gazed at the shadows on the ceiling above her, smiling at the conclusion of the book. 

Eventually she rose, stepping back into her own life after spending so many hours immersed in the experience of someone else. Y/N adjusted the sweater that had gotten twisted through all of her position shifts and pulled her tousled hair back with a clip. 

Y/N glided towards the kitchenette, sliding in her fluffy socks on the wood floor like an amateur ice skater. She made herself a cup of tea and leaned back against the edge of the counter, cradling the steaming mug. 

Leisurely, she went to sit on the little sofa a few feet away, and picked up an abandoned case report. 

She dropped it again, determined not to ruin her good mood with her job frustrations. Y/N ambled back into her bedroom and then into the adjoining bathroom. She leaned closer to the mirror, turning her face from side to side. Y/N touched the thinning red lines on her forehead and above her right eyebrow. It had been nearly two weeks since the explosion, and soon the red lines would fade into white scars, only noticeable if you looked very closely. 

Y/N had those scars because of Jim Moriarty. 

Y/N pulled up the left leg of her lounge pants, examining the two-inch white line across her knee. She looked at the parallel vertical scars on her right shoulder. 

Y/N had those scars because of her father. In addition to her self-defense classes in high school, he made her “practice” with some of the men in his organization. 

He let them bring knives to a practice fight with his teenage daughter. 

Y/N never told her mother about those practice sessions. She let Mrs. Hudson believe that the scars were from a fall on a hike, an accident in the lab, and any other excuse Y/N could think of. 

Y/N shook her head, stepping away from the mirror and going back into the small sitting room. She picked up the file again, skimming the case again. 

Simple. Easy. Boring. 

Y/N flopped backwards, using the folder to cover her face in defeat. She spent her days writing up evidence analysis for robberies, assaults, and open and shut homicides. While she drowned under paperwork covering small-time criminals, people like Moriarty and her father were out there working behind the scenes, pulling strings. 

Her love for the science aside, the only time Y/N felt like she was truly making a difference was when she helped Sherlock with the big stuff. She longed for cases the detectives couldn’t solve on their own, because she could actually use her abilities. 

The solution to her problem was obvious. 

She called Lestrade and arranged a meeting first thing the next morning. 

The next day, her desk lay empty. 

~

“Welcome to MI6, Agent Hudson.” Mycroft said dramatically, smiling teasingly at Y/N.

“Is that my official title?” She asked nervously. 

“Well, no.” He admitted. “You do; however, get an official badge.” 

She accepted the plastic ID in a smooth black leather holder. Written next to a picture of her was ‘Y/N Hudson. MI6 Investigator.’

“You have level two security clearance and you’ll be answering directly to me.” Mycroft explained, gesturing for Y/N to have a seat in front of his desk. She complied. 

“Will I be working with anyone else?” She asked. 

“Well, as I explained in the initial offer, your duties here will be to work with Sherlock on investigations that I deem important enough. Otherwise, I will be assigning you work on a case by case basis. You’ll have access to our lab technicians and labs for any forensic work as well as military back up, should you call for it.” 

“Military back up?” 

“Yes, rather like calling your DCI friend, but faster and more powerful.” Mycroft gloated. “Oh, and you’ll be paid monthly regardless of case load, which is more than Sherlock can say.” 

Y/N chuckled. The neverending competition amongst the Holmes brothers never ceased to amuse her. 

“Right.” Mycroft picked up his umbrella. “Ready for the tour?” 

Y/N nodded, following him out of the posh office and through the halls of the government building. 

Her smaller office was several floors down. The door was already adorned with her name. Inside she found a practical, but still elegant wooden desk and most importantly: a rolling desk chair. Behind the desk, two squat filing cabinets begged to be filled with all the cases awaiting her. A comfortable chair sat in the corner by the office’s only window, to the right and across from the desk. 

“I love it!” She exclaimed. 

It was probably against protocol, but Y/N threw her arms around Mycroft and gave him a sisterly hug. He froze at first, shocked. To her relief, he chuckled and patted her on the back. 

“Thank you, Mycroft, really.” She said, pulling away. “I think I’ll be able to do good here.” 

He nodded, smiling in his knowing, snobbish way. “I do have an eye for talent.” 

~

“You know Muffin, I think the last time we went shopping together was when you had to buy a dress for Prom.” Mrs. Hudson mused. 

Y/N and Martha Hudson were on opposite sides of the same clothing rack, looking through blazers and jackets. Semi-formal but still moveable pants filled the bag on Y/N’s arm. 

“That was almost nine years ago.” Y/N remembered. 

Mrs. Hudson held up a navy blazer. “D’you like it? Navy has always been your color.” 

Y/N hummed in agreement. “Get a few of those.” 

“Are you excited for your new job, darling?” 

“Very.” Y/N grinned. “It’s the kind of work I’ve been wanting to do for a long while now.” 

“I always knew you were meant to be a detective.” 

“Oh?” Y/N raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh yes.” Mrs. Hudson insisted. “You wouldn’t put down those  _ Nancy Drew _ books when you were little.” 

“I did adore Nancy.” Y/N agreed. 

“Well of course I was happy you liked biochemistry and all that, but you always had that eye for observation and this sort of...brilliant intuition, I suppose.” Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Like Pearl, in the  _ Scarlet Letter!”  _

Y/N gasped in mock offense. “Mother! I am not a devil child!” 

“Whatever you say, dear.” 

“Mum!” Y/N laughed. 

Laughing and reminiscing, mother and daughter acquired a maroon jacket, one dark green, two black, three navy, and one bright red blazer just for fun and special occasions. 

Y/N set her sights on the blouses next. 

“Ooooh,” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. “I like this one.” She held up a deep purple blouse. The fabric felt silky and smooth. There was something about the color and the texture of it that made her feel comforted. 

Upon trying it on, Y/N fell in love. The neck was wide, showing off her collarbone, but didn’t dip into unprofessionalism. It was unfairly comfortable and would look wonderful with one of her new black jackets. On the same rack, they found several more shirts in the same family, all with subtly different styles and in an array of colors.

Many pounds of fabric later, Y/N bid her mother goodbye. 

“Why don’t you come round for dinner tonight Muffin?” Mrs. Hudson suggested. “I can cook your favorites in celebration of the new job.” 

“That sounds wonderful Mum.” Y/N agreed. “Let me go home and put all this away. I’ll be over around seven?” 

~

Sherlock was moody. 

In the past three days, Y/N hadn’t visited once. Over 72 hours without someone of equal mental calibre to talk to. 

He stalked over to his chair and sat down heavily.  

Yes indeed, lack of entertainment was the only explanation Sherlock would admit out loud for his grumpiness. In his head; however, Sherlock knew that he’d grown accustomed to her. He expected to see her stealing his chair for reading, making tea in the kitchen, watching TV with John, or any number of things. He expected her to be there. He expected to hear her challenging him, agreeing with him, teasing him, and humming to herself. He expected to rely on her. He wasn’t getting what he expected, and that made him upset. 

He couldn’t do that if she was off filling out resignation papers, having government background checks, and being trained by none other than his annoyance of an older brother. 

Sherlock scolded himself for it, but he missed her. He missed Y/N, and it had only been three days. He missed her. He was happy for her. He was angry with her. He...cared about her. 

Yes, he knew that. He cared about her. But that was a very bad idea. Caring means you miss them and they can hurt you. 

“Y/N’s coming for dinner.” John said from the doorway, interrupting Sherlock’s self-reflection. 

“Yes, alright.” He said, not betraying his internal flutter of joy with his voice or countenance. 

John lingered for a moment on the threshold, observing his best friend with a knowing smile. Sherlock steadfastly ignored him, making John shake his head good-naturedly. 

“She’ll be here soon. I’m going down to help Mrs. Hudson set up.” John called over his shoulder as he descended the stairs. 

“Toodle-loo!” Sherlock replied flatly. 

The moment John was out of sight, Sherlock stood and swept down the hallway into his room. He traded his dressing gown for a suit jacket. Then he switched back to the dressing gown. He ran a hand through his unruly curls. Then he tousled them again impatiently. 

In the midst of contemplating putting the jacket back on, Sherlock heard the front door open. Indistinct greetings could be heard from Mrs. Hudson and John through the floor. Sherlock heard Y/N laugh. He smiled despite himself. 

~

“John, could you pass me the salad?” Y/N asked. 

John complied, maneuvering carefully so as to successfully pass the wooden bowl whilst also avoiding elbowing Mrs. Hudson. 

The kitchen table in 221A Baker Street was a lot smaller than the four friends had realized. Yet, they managed to squeeze in somehow and enjoy a nice dinner. 

“So when do you start infiltrating foreign governments?” Sherlock asked archly, looking down at Y/N, who sat to his left. 

Well, it was a mostly nice dinner. 

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’m just doing what you do, but being paid more.” She quipped. 

John raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Ooooh, burn.” He teased. 

“Under the thumb of the British government.” Sherlock argued. 

“I’ll be making more of a difference. Bigger cases, badder criminals.” She countered. 

Sherlock didn’t respond, choosing to stab his pasta aggressively. 

“He’s just jealous that Mycroft gets to work with you too now. Isn’t that right, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson observed. 

Y/N laughed while Sherlock glared defensively at the landlady. The young woman put her hand over his where it rested on the table. 

“He’s not jealous, Mum.” She said, earning surprised looks from the rest of the table. “He’s just worried that I’ll be so good that I put his brother out of a job.” She grinned. 

John hooted with laughter, clapping. “That’d be a sight!” 

Sherlock smirked, watching the sparkle in Y/N’s eyes. 

The rest of the meal flew by with conversation and storytelling among their little family. Mrs. Hudson retired to bed early, leaving the others to head back upstairs. John got a text from Sarah and made some half-hearted excuse before scurrying away to stay the night. 

Sherlock stood by the window with his violin tucked beneath his chin, playing an old familiar tune. Y/N listened quietly while she sat in John’s chair. 

After a few more minutes of calm, beautiful music, she interrupted. 

“Sherlock?” 

He halted in the middle of the song. 

“You do know that you’ll always be my favorite Holmes, right?” She asked. 

Sherlock turned to fully face the window. Y/N couldn’t see the raw and vulnerable expression taking over his usually stony countenance. 

“Obviously.” He replied, voice quiet and deep. 

Sherlock watched in the window’s reflection as Y/N threw her head back in a laugh, completely unaware of the emotion she was invoking in him. 

“Good.” She chuckled. 

Sherlock pretended to observe the street below while composing himself. Y/N obliviously retrieved a book from the large bookshelf and settled back down in John’s chair. Sherlock sat calmly across from her and played a few notes with his violin. 

Y/N looked up from the page and Sherlock met her gaze. She said nothing, only fixing her sociopathic friend with a smile. Sherlock stared back, only the slightest hint of a smirk ghosting across his lips. 

Y/N appeared to become flustered, having expected a smile in return rather than his observant gaze. Y/N looked at her book once again, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. 

Sherlock returned to his violin, sitting back with an air of comfortable confidence. The rest of the evening passed in content silence. 


	11. A Scandal in Belgravia Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH! I almost forgot to post this chapter because my summertime brain didn't remember what day of the week it is. Yikes!

_The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_ _May 30_

Life Goes On

“Time to write up a few notes. I’m going to tell you about a couple of the smaller cases we’ve been involved in. What really happened on the Tilly Briggs pleasure cruise. Then there was that really odd case with the melting laptop and the time Sherlock stole a bus. 

Just another typical week at 221B Baker Street!” 

~

Y/N was on a roll. She was on her third case in two days and completely focussed on sending the report in to Mycroft. Her upbeat working playlist seeped into her bones as she danced a little in her desk chair. Y/N grinned as her fingers flew across the computer keys. She hit the send button and sat back triumphantly in her chair. 

She was contemplating making a cuppa when her phone began to ring. It was John. 

“John, hello!” She answered. 

“Hello Y/N, I think we’ve got a case you might like.” John began. “Comic books are happening in real life.” 

At the words ‘comic books’ she was already out of her chair and heading for the door.

~

 

_The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_ _June 16_

The Geek Interpreter

“Three young men came to Baker St claiming that events in recent issues of a comic had started happening in real life...” 

 

_The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_ _August 1_

Sherlock Holmes Baffled 

“The body of a 45 year old man was found in a car on wasteland in Surrey. 

I genuinely never thought I’d see the day. Sherlock is BAFFLED! He hasn’t got a clue! He’s flummoxed! He’s bamboozled! 

He’s stuck…” 

~

Y/N strode across a roped off ballet stage with Sherlock on her left and John on her right. She’d happily sacrificed a Saturday to tag along on their latest case. 

“So what’s this one? ‘Belly button Murders?’” Sherlock asked mockingly. 

“‘The Naval Treatment?’” John countered, making both Y/N and Sherlock groan. 

They walked briskly down the backstage hallway, met by Lestrade who was coming from one of the dressing rooms. Y/N noted that his clothes were more crumpled than usual and he looked emotionally exhausted. He wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. 

He must have had another falling out with his wife. 

She stopped and gave him a big hug. “Greg! I’ve missed you!” 

Lestrade returned the embrace, relaxing a little at the comfort of a loving friend. He addressed the boys over her shoulder. 

“There’s a lot of press outside, guys.” 

“Well, they won’t be interested in us.” Sherlock resumed his walk down the hall, long legs propelling him faster than Y/N could keep up.

“Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon.” Lestrade corrected. “Couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you three.” 

“Three?” Y/N asked, surprised. 

“Don’t you read the comments?” John asked. “They really like when you’re on cases.” 

“Oh for god’s sake!” Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation. He ducked into one of the dressing rooms. “John.” 

“Hmm?” 

Sherlock threw a flat cap at his friend. “Cover your face and walk fast.” He turned to Y/N. “Just pull up your collar, I couldn’t find anything without feathers for you in there.” 

She laughed at that. 

“Still, it’s good for the public image, big case like this.” Lestrade mentioned. 

“I’m a private detective,” Sherlock grumbled, pulling on a deerstalker cap and flipping up the high collar of his coat. “The last thing I need is a public image.” 

They stepped out into the street and faced the flash bulbs and shouting reporters. 

By noon the next day, Mrs. Hudson had framed  _ The Times of London  _ article with a picture of her boys and her daughter at the top. 

~

_The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_ _August 12_

Hat-Man and Robin (and Y/N)

“We’ve been so busy over the last few months that I haven’t had time to write up most of our cases but this hasn’t stopped us becoming an Internet phenomenon. 

We’ve even made the papers!

Sherlock is NOT amused...” 

~

Sherlock watched Y/N. She was enthralled by the play he’d taken her to see. His observation of her was for science, he’d reasoned. He knew from the photographs in Mrs. Hudson's flat that Y/N had done plays in school, but she rarely expressed her love for all things related to theatre. 

Sherlock himself found the plot incredibly bland but he noticed Y/N take in everything about the performance from the actors’ physicalizations, to the set, to the lighting design, with joy. The light in her eyes reminded him of how he felt in his dance lessons as a boy. 

Y/N gasped as one of the actors hit the other with a crutch at the climax of an intense scene. Y/N grabbed Sherlock’s hand and turned to him for the first time in an hour with a distressed expression. 

“Sherlock,” She whispered. “I think he actually just killed him.”

~

_The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_ _September 2_

The Aluminum Crutch 

“This one you’ll have read about in the papers. The murder of Matthew Michael live on stage. I wasn’t actually there as I was on a date (went well, thanks for asking) but Sherlock and Y/N were and they left a number of messages on my voicemail, telling me what happened…”

~

Opioids present. High toxicity. Traces of arsenic. 

Y/N studied the results of a blood test on the victim of her latest case. She pulled out a sample dish of the blood and put it under the microscope. 

“Andrew?” She called, looking up. 

“Yes, Miss. Hudson?” The lab technician came over right away. 

“Do we have any DNA samples from the boyfriend?” 

“Er, yeah, I think.” Andrew said, opening one of the filing cabinet drawers and pulling out a folder. “Let’s see. Yeah okay. Urine test, positive for heroin.” 

“Thank you Andrew.” She said, grabbing the file and the result sheet and heading back down the hall to her office. 

She opened the door, surprised to see Mycroft sitting in her chair. 

“Good morning Y/N.” He said with his usual semi-smug tone. 

“Good morning!” She replied. 

“Do you need something?” She asked when he didn’t get out of her chair or begin one of his typical dramatic monologues. 

“You’ll be wanting to take off that lab coat.” He said. 

“Will I now?” Y/N raised an eyebrow. 

Mycroft stood, inclining his head to indicate sincerity. “You will.” 

Y/N complied, draping the white coat over the back of the armchair by the window. Mycroft looked her over once before nodding in approval and heading for the door. Y/N looked down at herself, finding nothing strange in her semi-formal blue dress. 

“Follow me.” Mycroft called to her as he made his way down the hall. Too curious to disobey, Y/N hurried to catch up with her boss. 

During the ten minute car ride, Mycroft gave vague replies to each of Y/N’s questions before answering a phone call and halting her queries.

“Have the Coventry Lot on standby, Bond Air is on hold for the time being…No, I’ll be speaking with him myself...Yes...Alright, goodbye.”

Y/N knew the story of Coventry well, as she had a degree in history. She was unnerved, to say the least, that one of Mycroft’s projects involved something under that moniker. As with many things in her new job, Y/N chose to trust Mycroft and his higher security clearance over her own concern.  

By the time she was gaping in awe at the gates of Buckingham Palace, all she knew was that she was about to be put on a case with Sherlock and John. From their location, she had pretty good idea of just how popular John’s blog had become. 

Mycroft left her in the care of a footman as he walked off to speak with a man in a suit that probably cost the same ridiculous price as Mycroft’s.

The footman led her through chandelier lit hallways and huge rooms with high ceilings and large portraits of the royals dating back for centuries. It was hard for Y/N to resist splitting away from him to hide somewhere and never leave. 

Eventually she entered a smaller sitting area with pink carpet and two ornate white sofas facing each other.

Sherlock, clad only in a bedsheet, was sitting on one sofa. She grinned and came to sit beside him. Within moments, John arrived as well. 

He looked to his friends questioningly, but they both shrugged at him, having just as much of a clue as he had about _why they were_ _in Buckingham Palace._

John sat down on Y/N’s other side. “Are you wearing any pants?” He asked Sherlock quietly. 

“No.” Sherlock replied. 

“Okay.” John nodded. 

There was beat of silence. 

All three of them burst out laughing. 

“At Buckingham Palace. Right.” John cleared his throat. “I am seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray.” 

Y/N giggled. 

“Seriously, what are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?” John asked.

“I don’t know.” 

“Here to see the queen?” Y/N joked. 

Mycroft strode in from down the hallway, head held high. 

“Oh, apparently, yes.” Sherlock quipped.

The three burst into peals of laughter once again, shoulders shaking. 

“Just once can you behave like grownups?” Mycroft asked.

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to stop the laughter fluttering in her chest. 

“We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants so I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.” John argued. 

“I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft.” Sherlock said seriously. 

“So was she.” Mycroft gestured to Y/N. “Besides, I looked at the file for that hiker and backfire case. Bit obvious, isn’t it?” 

“Transparent.” Sherlock agreed. 

“Time to move on, then.” Mycroft grabbed the pile of Sherlock’s clothes. He sighed when his younger brother did not accept them. 

“We are in Buckingham Palace, at the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on.” 

“What for?” Sherlock asked like a petulant child. 

“Your client.” 

“And my client is?” Sherlock demanded, standing up. 

“Illustrious, in the extreme.” The important man from before came round the corner. “And remaining, I have to inform you, entirely anonymous.”

“Harry, may I just apologize for the state of my little brother?” Mycroft said, shaking his friend’s hand. 

“A full-time occupation, I imagine.” Harry commented. 

Y/N and John both stood, Y/N’s hands curling into fists at the man’s snobbish remark. 

“And this must be Dr. John Watson,” Harry stepped forward. “Formerly of the forty-fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog.” 

“Your employer?” John asked. 

“Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch.” 

“Thank you.” John said, turning to give Sherlock a triumphant smile. 

Harry moved further down the line, shaking Y/N’s hand. “Miss. Hudson of MI6 Investigative Division. Mycroft has told me about your work.” 

“Has he?” Y/N glanced at the older Holmes who shrugged.

“My employer also enjoys those entries of Doctor Watson’s blog where you help solve the mystery. Clever women and all that.”  

Y/N felt complimented by the “employer” while also wishing even more to punch this man in the face. Before she could make such a life-ruining decision; however, Harry had moved on. 

“And Mr. Holmes the younger, you look taller in your photographs.” 

“I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend.” Sherlock replied shortly, beginning to walk away. “Mycroft, I don’t do anonymous clients. I’m used to mystery at one end of my cases, both ends is too much work. Good morning.” 

He turned and made for the doorway when Mycroft’s foot on the corner of the sheet stopped him. 

As the sheet fell away, Y/N found herself staring at the expanse of his back and shoulders. She felt her heart speed up and looked down at the floor to hide the color rising to her cheeks. 

“This is a matter of national importance. Grow up!” Mycroft demanded. 

“Get off my sheet!” 

“Or what?” Mycroft challenged. 

“Or I’ll just walk away.” Sherlock threatened. 

“I’ll let you.” 

John stepped forward and looked pleadingly at Mycroft. “Boys, please. Not here.”

“Who is my client?” Sherlock asked again. 

“Take a look at where you’re standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for god’s sake!” Mycroft took an angry breath. “Put your clothes on!” He hissed.

Sherlock gave in begrudgingly and returned a few moments later, fully clothed. Tea was brought in and Mycroft took the pot with smile. 

“I’ll be mother.” He said, pouring Harry a cup. 

“And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell.” Sherlock said dryly. Mycroft sat back, nostrils flaring in rage. 

Harry changed the topic. “My employer has a problem.” 

“A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen.” Mycroft continued. 

“Why?” Sherlock questioned. “You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally secret service. You even have her.” He nodded to Y/N. “Why come to me?” 

“People do come to you for help, don’t they Mr. Holmes?” Harry prompted. 

“Not to date anyone with a navy.” Sherlock replied wittily. Y/N suppressed a laugh. 

“This is a matter of the highest security and therefore of trust.” Mycroft explained. 

Harry verbally nudged Mycroft. “I do think we have a timetable.” 

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft reached into a case at his feet and pulled out a photograph and handing it to Sherlock. “What do you know about this woman?” 

“Nothing whatsoever.” Sherlock answered. 

“Then you should be paying more attention.” Mycroft scolded. 

Y/N leaned over and looked at the picture. The woman was very beautiful with carefully coiled hair, red lipstick and a piercing, intelligent gaze. She looked to be about thirty. Y/N had seen her before.

“She’s the woman from that scandal with the writer.” Y/N remembered. 

Mycroft nodded proudly. 

“Who is she?” Sherlock asked. 

“Irene Adler,” Mycroft answered. “Professionally known as ‘The Woman.’”

“Professionally?” John questioned. 

“There are many names for what she does. She prefers ‘dominatrix.’” said Mycroft. 

“Dominatrix.” Sherlock said to himself, still looking at the photo. 

“Don’t be alarmed.” Mycroft said with fake soothing. “It’s to do with sex.” 

Sherlock looked up. “Sex doesn’t alarm me.” 

“How would you know?” Mycroft continued. “She provides, shall we say, recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it.” Mycroft pulled more pictures from his case. “These are all from her website.” 

Y/N crossed her legs, feeling...defensive...as she saw the various shots of Miss Adler in different state of undress, with whips and chains and lots of black leather. 

“She has some compromising photographs?” Y/N asked, looking over at Mycroft and Harry. 

“You’re very quick, Miss. Hudson.” Harry condescended. 

“Photographs of whom?” She pressed. 

Mycroft and Harry shared a look. “A person of significance to my employer. We’d prefer not to say anymore at this time.” 

“You can’t tell us anything?” John checked. 

“I can tell you it’s a young person.” Mycroft elaborated. “A young female person.”

A series of looks were exchanged among the five of them. 

“How many photographs?” 

“A considerable number, apparently.” 

“Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in the photographs together?” Sherlock asked, 

“Yes they do.” Mycroft answered calmly. 

“And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios?”

“An imaginative range, we are assured.” 

“John, do you want to put your cup back in the saucer now?” Y/N asked the friend to her left, who’d been holding his tea between the saucer and his lips, gawking. 

“Can you help us Mr. Holmes?” Harry asked. 

“How?”

“Take the case.” 

“What case? Pay her now, and in full.” Sherlock answered simply. He began gathering his things. “As Miss. Adler remarks in her masthead: know when you are beaten.”

Mycroft stalled Sherlock’s movements. “She doesn’t want anything. She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favor.” 

“Oh, a power play.” Sherlock realized. “A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn’t it?” 

Something about the way Sherlock was speaking made Y/N’s heart sink a bit. 

“Sherlock-” John tried to reign him in. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock barged onward. “Where is she?”

“Er, in London, currently. She’s staying-” Mycroft began. 

“Text me the details. I’ll be in touch by the end of the day.” Sherlock interrupted, walking towards the door. 

“Do you really think you’ll have news by then?” Harry asked, incredulous. 

“No, I think I’ll have the photographs.” Sherlock corrected. 

“One can only hope that you’re as good as you seem to think.” Harry commented. 

Y/N sighed, watching as Sherlock deduced the palace aide in an instant. 

“I’ll need some equipment of course.” Sherlock announced. 

“Anything you require,” Mycroft assured. “I’ll have it sent over.” 

“Can I have a box of matches?” 

“I’m sorry?” Harry asked. 

“Or your cigarette lighter, either will do.” Sherlock said, defiance in his eyes. 

“I don’t smoke.” Harry said. 

“No, I know you don’t, but your employer does.” 

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter, handing it to the detective. “We have successfully kept a lot of people in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes.”

“I’m not the commonwealth.” Sherlock replied. 

“And that’s as modest as he gets.” John concluded the interaction. “Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Laters!” Sherlock called as he left, Y/N and John following. 

 

At 221B, Sherlock made a big fuss over his “battle armor.” John, of course, found it amusing, but Y/N couldn’t help but feel a pang of what she could only describe as jealousy over Sherlock wanting to look just right for this powerful woman. 

“So what’s the plan?” John asked in the taxi on the way to Belgrave Square. 

“We know her address.” Sherlock answered. 

“What, we just ring her doorbell?” 

“Exactly.” said Sherlock. He leaned forward and spoke to the cabbie. “Just here, please.” 

“You didn’t even change your clothes.” John pointed out. 

“Then it’s time to add a splash of color.” Sherlock said, getting out of the taxi and heading for an alleyway. 

“This isn’t the address. We’re still two streets away.” Y/N said, looking to her tall friend with confusion. 

He nodded before looking to John. “Punch me in the face.” 

“Punch you?” John asked. 

“Yes, punch me, in the face. Didn’t you hear me?” 

“I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext.” John replied, making Y/N laugh. 

“Oh, for God’s sakes!” Sherlock exclaimed, slapping John hard enough to knock him backward. 

John bounced right back; however, landing a punch on Sherlock’s cheek. 

“Thank you, that was, that was-” Sherlock began, but John was charging, punching the detective again, before putting him in a headlock. 

Y/N threw up her hands in exasperation. “Stop it! Now!” 

John didn’t listen, clearly needing to get out some pent-up annoyance with his flatmate. Y/N sighed, stepping forward and grabbing John by the ear, pulling him away. 

“Enough!” She shouted. 

Both men stood up, shamefaced as though they were misbehaving children sent to the headmaster. 

“Let’s go, come on.” Y/N began the two street walk, companions following behind while Sherlock filled them in on the rest of the plan. 

 

At the mansion, Miss. Adler’s assistant, a ginger haired woman around Y/N’s age let them in under the ruse of having just been mugged. Sherlock and Y/N were the supposed victims, an unassuming priest and his companion.  John was the good samaritan who saw the whole thing. Y/N and Sherlock were shown into a living room while John went to scope the place out “in search of a first aid kit.”

Y/N heard heels coming down the corridor. A voice called. “Hello, sorry to hear you’ve been hurt. I don’t think Kate caught your name.” 

“I’m so sorry, I’m-” 

Sherlock couldn’t finish his sentence and Y/N tightened her posture, feeling vulnerable as Irene Adler stood completely naked in the doorway. 

“Oh, it’s always hard to remember an alias when you’ve had a fright. Isn’t it?” She came to stand directly in front of Sherlock. “There now, we’re both defrocked.” She said, pulling the clerical collar from out of his shirt. 

She stood confidently, looking Sherlock directly in the eyes. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” 

He met her gaze. “Miss. Adler I presume.” 

“Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?” Miss. Adler flirted.

“Oh, calm down.” Y/N stood, propelled by a rising unease and need to feel more in control of the situation by being on the same level as the dominatrix. 

“Ah yes, the pretty little pet.” Miss. Adler said with disdain, looking Y/N up and down like a jaguar looking at its prey. “Go sit and wait now, dear.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. 

Y/N took a step forward as John and his knack for ever so perfect timing arrived. He stopped short at the sight of The Woman.

“I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

Miss Adler stepped away from Sherlock. “Please, sit down. Or if you’d like some tea, I can call the maid.” 

The dominatrix didn’t miss the way Y/N’s shoulders relaxed more as the distance between Irene and Sherlock grew. She smirked, delighted at the opportunity to flirt with the famous detective and torture this tall woman in the blue dress who was so clearly in love with him. 

“I had some at the palace.” Sherlock said. 

“I know.” Irene replied, settling in an armchair. 

“Clearly.” Sherlock said. 

Silence fell as Miss Adler looked seductively at Sherlock and he and Y/N both tried to deduce her. Y/N moved to stand behind the sofa, behind Sherlock. Y/N quickly came to see how brilliant The Woman was. She couldn’t deduce a thing. All she knew was that Miss. Adler had 32” hips, and 24” waist and a 34” bust. Oh, and that Y/N really didn’t trust her.

“Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?” Miss. Adler began. “However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.” 

“You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face.” He said, loosening his collar. 

“No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself.” She leaned forward. “Oh and somebody loves you. If I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.” 

John laughed dryly. “Could you put something on, please? Er, anything at all, a napkin?” He suggested. 

“Why? Are you feeling exposed?” She asked calmly. 

Sherlock stood, picking up his coat. “I don’t think John knows where to look.” 

“No, I think he knows exactly where.” Irene disagreed, standing in front of John. “I’m not sure about you.” She added, taking Sherlock’s coat and putting it on. 

“If I wanted to look at naked women, I’d borrow John’s laptop.” Sherlock made his way to stand in front of fireplace. 

“You do borrow my laptop.” John said. 

“I confiscate it.” 

“Oh nevermind,” Irene dismissed. “We’ve got better things to talk about. Now, tell me, I need to know. How was it done?” She asked sitting on the sofa and removing her heels. 

“What?” 

“The hiker with the bashed-in head, how was he killed?” She elaborated. 

Y/N didn’t like the baffled, somewhat awed expression on Sherlock’s face.

“That’s not why I’m here.” He said slowly. 

“No, no, you’re here for the photographs, but that’s never going to happen. And since we’re here just chatting anyway…”

“That story’s not been on the news yet, how do you know about it?” John asked, miffed. 

“I know one of the policemen. Well, I know what he likes.” She replied. 

“Oh.” John sat on the sofa next to her. “And you like policemen?”

“I like detective stories.” Miss Adler said. “And detectives. Brainy’s the new sexy.” 

Sherlock, who had been watching her carefully, suddenly burst out with a strange rush of words that sounded like “poshhhiaicah!” 

The pang of jealousy Y/N had felt before was becoming a rising, crushing feeling. Sherlock was showing clear signs of admiration for this nasty woman and there was nothing Y/N could do to stop the feeling of hurt bubbling up inside her. 

Sherlock shook his head and began pacing. “The position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire, that and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head, that’s all you need to know.” 

“Okay,” Miss Adler said. “Tell me, how was he murdered.” 

“It wasn’t murder.” Y/N said, her voice sounding weaker than she’d wanted. 

Irene looked at her skeptically. “You don’t think it was murder?” She asked, disbelieving. 

“I know it wasn’t.” Sherlock agreed. 

“How?” The Woman whined. 

“The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman, recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I’m looking for are in this room.” Sherlock listed rapidly. 

“Okay, but how?” Miss Adler relented. 

“So they are in this room. Thank you.” Sherlock paused his pacing. “John, man the door, let no one in.” 

The doctor left, closing the door behind him. At the click of the handle, Sherlock began to lay out the case. He bought enough time for John to trip the smoke alarm. At the first lous beep, Irene looked to the mirror above the mantle piece. 

“On hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child.” Sherlock began feeling around under the mantle. “Amazing how fire exposes our priorities.” 

He found the button and the mirror lifted up with a hiss, exposing a safe. “I really hope you don’t have a baby in here.” He said. “Alright John, you can turn it off now!” He called. 

Y/N heard John’s muffled voice from downstairs. “Give me a minute!” 

Sherlock studied the safe while Y/N stayed put behind the couch, ready to intervene if Miss. Adler tried something. 

“You should always wear gloves with these things you know. Heaviest oil deposit is always on the first key used, and that’s quite clearly a three, but after that the sequence is almost impossible to read.” Sherlock was showing off for her, which made the crushing feeling rise further within Y/N.

“I can see from the make that it’s a six digit code. Can’t be your birthday, no disrespect but you were clearly born in the eighties and the eight’s barely used, so…” 

“I’d tell you the code right now, but you know what? I already have.” The Woman said moving to look out the window. 

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“Think.” Irene teased. 

Y/N’s mind whirled with possibilities. How could she have already told them? She was impossible to deduce without any clothes on― oh.

“Sherlock, it’s her -” 

A group of men with guns stormed the living room. “Hands behind your head, on the floor, keep it still!” The first man yelled in an American accent. 

They shoved John inside, who joined Y/N and Irene on the ground. 

“Don’t you want me on the floor too?” Sherlock asked. 

“No, sir, I want you to open the safe.” The American demanded. 

“American.” Sherlock said. “Interesting. Why would you care?” He looked at Irene who avoided his gaze. 

“Sir, the safe, now, please.” 

“I don’t know the code.” Sherlock protested. 

“We’ve been listening. She said she told you.” The American pointed out. 

“Well if you’ve been listening, you’ll know she didn’t.” 

“I’m assuming I missed something.” The man was getting angry. “From your reputation, I’m assuming you didn’t, Mr. Holmes.” 

John spoke up. “For God’s sake, she’s the one who knows the code! Ask her!”

“Yes, sir, she also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I’ve learned not to trust this woman.” The American said. 

“Mr. Holmes doesn’t-” Irene started. 

“Shut up!” The man yelled. “One more word out of you, just one, and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That for me, will not be a hardship.” 

The Woman turned and looked at Y/N, who put aside her distrust for a moment. Y/N very subtly mouthed the word ‘measurements’ to the other woman, who nodded almost imperceptibly. 

“Mr. Archer, on the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson.” The man ordered. 

“What?” John yelped. 

“I don’t know the code.” Sherlock insisted. 

Y/N stared at him, willing him to look at her. 

“One,” The man began to count.

“I don’t know the code!” 

“Two.” 

Sherlock finally glanced at his friend. She abandoned subtlety and mouthed the same word as obviously as she could. 

“Three.” 

“No, stop!” Sherlock shouted. 

He turned around and carefully typed in 322434. The safe unlocked. 

“Thank you Mr. Holmes, now open it.” The American ordered. 

Sherlock glanced backward once more to see Miss. Adler crouching lower. 

“Vatican cameos!” He exclaimed, ducking down as the door to the safe swung open. John hit the floor and Y/N dove to the side, covering her head with her arms. A gun inside the safe fired, the bullet hitting the man who had threatened John. 

Y/N kicked upward from the floor at hit the man who had her at gunpoint in the groin, making him double over. She hit him in the nose with the heel of her left palm, the heel of her right palm, and then pulled his head down to crack it over her knee, knocking him out. 

The other two agents had been incapacitated by Sherlock and Miss. Adler. 

“He’s dead.” John said, referring to the one hit by the bullet. 

“Thank you.” Irene breathed. “You were very observant. I’m flattered.” 

“Don’t be.” Sherlock replied. “Have you already forgotten who figured it out?” 

Irene sneered at Y/N. “Oh, but you were the one who typed it in. You did know where to look.” 

“There’ll be more of them. They’ll be keeping an eye on the building.” Sherlock rushed from the room with John at his heels. 

Y/N stayed in the living room with the dominatrix, watching with a smile as Irene ran to to safe, finding it empty. 

“Did you think he’d just leave it there?” Y/N asked. 

“Oh, shut it.” Irene spat. “You think you’re something just because you get to run around and solve crimes with him, don’t you. Well, I have news, honey. I can tell he looks at me in a way he’ll never look at you.” 

To Y/N, this was the truth, and it certainly hurt. She managed to hold back the lump in her throat as she heard Sherlock’s voice returning up the stairs. 

He entered, flipping a camera-phone in his hand. “Well, that’s the knighthood in the bag.” He said. 

“Oh,” Irene said calmly, holding out her hand. “And that’s mine.” 

“All the photographs are on here, I presume?” 

“I have copies, of course.” Irene assured him. 

“No you don’t.” Y/N cut in, voice only mildly wavering. “To sell the contents of that phone, they’d have to be entirely unique. No uplinks, no connections.” 

“Who said I’m selling?” Irene asked. 

“Well, why would they be interested?” Sherlock countered, gesturing to the unconscious men on the floor. 

“Whatever’s on the phone, it’s clearly not just photographs.” Sherlock deduced. 

“That camera-phone is my life, Mr. Holmes. I’d die before I let you take it. It’s my protection.” 

“Sherlock!” John yelled from somewhere in the house. “Y/N!” 

Sherlock moved the phone out of The Woman’s reach. “It was.” He said, leaving the room to answer John’s call. 

They found him in one of the bedrooms. Irene’s assistant was knocked out on the floor. A window was open in the bathroom, clearly the entrance of the Americans. 

“There’s a back door.” Miss. Adler said. “Better check it, Dr. Watson.” 

Reluctantly, John left again as The Woman took something out of the drawer of her vanity. 

“You’re very calm.” Sherlock said, looking at the camera-phone again. “You did just kill a man.” 

“Well, he would have killed me.” Irene came closer. “It was self defense in advance.” 

She stabbed Y/N quickly in the shoulder with a syringe before pivoting and repeating the action with a different syringe on Sherlock. 

Immediately, Y/N fell to the floor, her vision swimming. 

“Give it to me!” The woman commanded. 

“No.” Sherlock denied, stumbling and falling, disoriented. 

Y/N wobbled on her knees, grabbing The Woman’s ankle. “Leave him alone!” She slurred. 

Irene grabbed a riding crop and struck Y/N across the face. Hard. Y/N whimpered and fell backward. 

“Don’t...touch her.” Sherlock grunted. 

Y/N’s muscles began to spasm as Irene took the camera-phone from Sherlock. 

“Now, tell that sweet little posh thing the pictures are safe with me. They’re not for blackmail, just for insurance. Besides, I might want to see her again.” Irene said smugly. 

Sherlock wheezed. 

“Oh no no no no no.” Irene pushed him down with her foot. “It’s been a pleasure, don’t spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you.”

Y/N heard what sounded like John’s voice and was vaguely aware of all of her muscles hurting  as the world went dark and she fell unconscious. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, Irene. 
> 
> I hate her, and yet she will be back. Hope you liked the chapter! I'm excited for everyone to see what's coming up. :D


	12. A Scandal in Belgravia Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *does some dorky dance moves*   
> I love this chapter! I love this chapter! I hope you do to!

_ Knock knock.  _

Y/N turned away from the cork board on her wall with case photos displayed on it to see Dr. John Watson in her office doorway. Her face lit up as she rushed over to give him a hug. 

“I come bearing lunch!” He said, presenting her with a large paper bag that smelled of Chinese takeaway. 

She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until her stomach growled loudly at the scent of lo mein. 

“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” She asked, ushering him inside. 

“Probably,” John chuckled. “But it never hurts to hear it again.” 

“Well, I love you very much.” Y/N smiled, pulling the armchair closer to her desk so they could sit together while they ate. 

“How are you feeling?” John inquired as Y/N dug in to her noodles ravenously. 

Y/N gingerly touched the yellowish bruise on her cheek from The Woman’s riding crop. 

“By about ten I wasn’t dizzy at all, and the nausea was gone when I woke up, so I don’t think she stuck me with any long-lasting poison.” Y/N answered. “How is Sherlock?” 

“Oh he’s more than fine.” John intoned. 

“What does that mean?” Y/N asked curiously and admittedly a bit frightened. 

“Irene Adler returned his coat in the middle of the night and left him with little gift.” John explained. “She’s been texting him, and every time he gets it, his phone makes this really sexual moan. I’m pretty sure it’s her voice in the recording.” John laughed. “It’s been making your mum terribly uncomfortable.” 

“Is Sherlock replying to any of her texts?” Y/N asked. 

“I don’t know. Why?” 

“He just seemed very...taken with her.” Y/N replied, trying to sound nonchalant. 

John tilted his head, studying her. Y/N was clearly avoiding his gaze, pretending to be engrossed in the contents of her Chinese food container. John wasn’t as observant as Sherlock or Y/N, but he didn’t miss the hurt on her face. 

“Anyway, Mycroft has taken us off the case.” John changed the subject. “What are you working on?” 

~

The fall passed away in a rotating cycle of work for Y/N, small cases for the boys and evening visits for all three. Y/N endured fifty-six of Miss. Adler’s moaning text messages over the months. They arrived during dinner, while reading in the living room, in the middle of conversations, and on and on. 

Sherlock grew more and more fascinated by the dominatrix each day and Y/N felt more ashamed of her feelings. When Mrs. Hudson had a hip operation in early December, Y/N would often use the excuse of taking care of her mother to avoid coming upstairs. John watched it all, eternally unsure of what to do. 

Y/N looked forward to the holidays, hoping for a nice evening surrounded by friends and family to lift her up out of her pit of self-pity. 

It didn’t go as she had hoped. 

Sherlock played the last few notes of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” on his violin, getting applause and praise from his small audience. 

“Oh, I wish you could’ve worn the antlers!” Mrs. Hudson laughed. 

“Some things are best left to the imagination Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock replied. 

John and his girlfriend, Jeanette, came round offering drinks.

“Oh, no thanks, Sarah.” Sherlock said to Jeanette. 

John rushed over, ready to triage the situation. “Oh no no no, he’s not good with names.” 

“I can get this!” Sherlock insisted. “Sarah was the doctor. And then there was the one with the spots, and then the one with the nose, and who was the one after the boring teacher?”

Jeanette crossed her arms. “Nobody.” 

“Jeanette!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Ah, process of elimination.” 

Perched on the arm of Mrs. Hudson’s seat, Y/N facepalmed. 

“That was really bad of you, Tommy.” Y/N said to Sherlock with a smile. “Oh no, that’s wrong. Was it Billy?” She tapped her chin. “Hang on, I’ll get it.” 

“It’s really John’s fault, you know.” Sherlock smiled. 

_ Aaaah.  _ The moan came from Sherlock’s phone.

As if it was a reflex, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone to read the text. He stood, looking for something. He grabbed a red box tied with black rope off of the mantlepiece and excused himself. 

Feeling all her negative thoughts coming back, Y/N got up and stalked into the kitchen. 

“Need a drink?” Lestrade asked. 

“God yes.” Y/N replied. 

Lestrade handed her a whiskey. She took a big, throat-burning swig as the door to Sherlock’s room closed.

~ 

When Sherlock didn’t reappear, Y/N made her goodbyes and returned home to go to bed. Her new job was tiring enough even without the added drag of being heartsick. 

In the wee hours of the morning, the ringing of her cell phone woke her. 

“Hello?” She mumbled, sitting up in bed. 

“We’ve found Irene Adler’s dead body.” Mycroft didn’t even say hello. “Sherlock is on is way to identify the body at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. I think it’s best that you come too.” 

The line clicked without another word. 

“Oh God.” Y/N whispered to her dark bedroom, heart aching. 

She skipped getting dressed in real clothes and went straight to the hospital. As she came round the hallway corner, she saw Mycroft and Sherlock talking through the window in the door. 

Sherlock was smoking a cigarette. 

Y/N studied her shoes, arguing back and forth with her conscience about the merits of eavesdropping. 

“Look at them,” Sherlock said, watching a grieving family at the other end of the hall. “They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?” 

Y/N held her breath, hurt and worry freezing her to the spot as she listened. 

“All lives end, all hearts are broken.” Mycroft replied. “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

Sherlock exhaled roughly, and looked at his cigarette with disdain. “This is low tar.” 

“Well,” Mycroft intoned. “You barely knew her.” 

“Huh.” Sherlock replied, walking away. “Merry Christmas, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft watched his younger brother walk away. “And a happy New Year.” 

Feeling she could bear it no longer, Y/N broke away from her spot and strode into the dark corridor. Mycroft turned to face, unsurprised. 

“Didn’t you ever learn not to eavesdrop?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“No, not really.” She said. “My father ran a drug cartel. He wasn’t one for morality.” 

Y/N walked past the older Holmes, gaze not wavering from where Sherlock had exited. She paused before leaving entirely. 

“You’re wrong, you know.” She leveled a determined stare at her boss. “Caring makes us human, and you can’t pretend that you don’t have that piece of humanity in you.” 

The door swung shut behind her as Mycroft pulled out his phone to call John. 

Y/N caught up with Sherlock as he was getting into a taxi. She practically dove inside, giving the driver the address of her flat, instead of 221B. 

Sherlock looked at her questioningly. 

“I didn’t get to give you your Christmas present.” She explained.

Sherlock turned to look out the window, wishing only for the quick relief that came from the needle. 

He didn’t say a word for the rest of the taxi ride, and neither did she. They walked up to her flat side by side in silence. Sherlock sat on her sofa quietly while she made tea and retrieved a neatly wrapped box from her bedroom closet. 

She filled the mug he always used and then filled her own, adding a splash of milk. Y/N balanced the mugs and the gift and came to join her heartbroken friend. She put the gift carefully down and then set the mugs side by side. 

Y/N still said nothing as she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s wide shoulders. He let out a breath, letting his head fall forward enough to rest his forehead on her shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged back. 

Y/N didn’t pat his back, she didn’t whisper soothing words, she only held onto him and he to her, like they were one another’s rafts in a great wide ocean. 

Y/N held him. 

Sherlock held her. 

They stayed there as the tea became cold. 

When he was ready, Sherlock gently pulled away. The sadness that had felt so crushing before had faded into a dull ache in his sternum. Y/N handed him the rectangular box wrapped in blue paper with a purple ribbon. 

At the top of the box was a framed photograph. 

John must have taken it, Sherlock deduced. In the image, Y/N was sitting in John’s chair holding a book with one hand and a mug of tea in the other. On the other side of the fireplace, Sherlock sat in his chair with his fingers steepled, covering his lips. Y/N’s eyes were crinkled with laughter and Sherlock could see a smile of his own hidden behind his hands. 

Dozens of moments identical to the one in the photo crossed Sherlock’s mind. He looked up and met Y/N’s gaze. Raw, genuine emotion was clear in her expression and Sherlock took a moment to study her carefully. 

She wasn’t there too fool him. She wasn’t about to disappear. She was real. 

“Thank you.” 

Sherlock placed the gift back into its box and stood. He bent down and placed a kiss on the top of her head. 

With that, he was gone. 

As the door clicked shut behind him, Y/N slumped backwards against the couch. She held her hand to her heart. 

~

A swelling, emotional melody filled the walls of a cluttered, well-loved flat on Baker Street. 

The melody stopped short as its composer made a note on his sheet music. 

The melody began again before stopping in nearly the same place. 

Sherlock looked at the new photograph on the mantle, and then to the woman sitting on his couch before scribbling a few more notes onto the page. John came in and grabbed his jacket as Sherlock began again. 

“That’s a lovely tune, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson commented, picking up a dirty plate from the desk and moving it to the kitchen. 

Y/N hummed in agreement from the couch where she had been pretending to read while observing Sherlock. 

“You composing?” John asked. 

“Helps me to think.” Sherlock said. He started playing again. 

“What are you thinking about?” John interrupted. 

Sherlock whirled around, pointing his bow at John’s laptop. “The count on your blog is still stuck at 1,895.” 

“Yes,” John replied. “It’s faulty, can’t seem to fix it.” 

Y/N, getting curious, got up and came to look at the screen too. 

“Faulty...or you’ve been hacked and it’s a message.” Sherlock said, pulling out Irene Adler’s camera phone and typing in ‘1895.’

_ I am _ _ _ _ locked. 3 attempts remaining.  _

Sherlock’s face fell. “Just faulty.”

“Right.” John said as Sherlock began to play yet again. “Well I’m going out for a bit.” 

Sherlock ignored him. 

“Have fun.” Y/N said with a smile and a hug as John headed out the door. 

A few minutes later Sherlock set down his violin and disappeared into his bedroom. He re-emerged fully dressed, announced that he was going out, and then promptly left. 

Y/N sighed, unsurprised. 

_ He needs to do what he needs to do.  _ She thought. 

Feeling lonely in the stillness of 221B, Y/N grabbed her book and went downstairs to see her mother. 

“Hello, Muffin.” Mrs. Hudson greeted. 

“Hi Mum.” Y/N watched as her mother retrieved a crate of cleaning supplies from a closet. “Do you want some help?” 

“Looking for pocket money again?” Mrs. Hudson teased. 

Y/N grinned. “Always.” 

Y/N was about halfway done cleaning the kitchen floor while Mrs. Hudson worked on polishing the windows when the front door banged open with a crack. 

Y/N sat up, on edge.  _ Someone has just broken in.  _

She stood and turned around in time to see the huge black-clad Americans from Miss Adler’s apartment rushing at her. 

“Mum! Get out!” She screamed at her mother. 

The first man grabbed Y/N’s wrist. She saw him coming and as his hand touched, the heel of her other palm slammed into his nose. Y/N moved her arm in an arc, breaking his grasp before she punched him in the face. 

The other man, the one who had held Sherlock at gunpoint all those months back, aggressively searched Mrs. Hudson. 

“Where is it?” He demanded. 

“GET AWAY FROM HER!” Y/N screeched, flying at him. 

She kicked and punched and clawed until he let her mother go. In her fury; however, she didn’t see the third agent until he pressed a cloth over her nose and mouth.

“No! Please!” She heard her mother scream. “Sherlock! Sherlock!” She sobbed. 

Y/N’s vision became blurred as her limbs went steadily more limp until she fell unconscious. 

~

Y/N awoke to the sight of the living room she loved so very much. There was the spray painted smiley face above the couch. There was the little corner table with its square lamp and the skull portrait. 

And on her left was her mother, tied to a chair, with a gun held to the back of her head. 

No, no, that wasn’t right. Regaining consciousness, Y/N stiffened and strained against the ropes that bound her to her own chair. 

“I’d suggest you sit still, Miss. Hudson.” The leader threatened. 

“Oh Y/N.” Her mother sobbed. “Oh Muffin, oh, oh no.” 

Y/N tried her best to hush Mrs. Hudson soothingly. “It’s okay Mum, stay calm. It’s okay.” 

“He’s back, boss.” One of the men said, looking out the window. 

“Both of you. Shut up. Now.” The leader growled. 

Y/N heard the creak of the front door. 

Silence. 

Slow, deliberate footsteps on the stairs. 

The peeling blue door the living room swung open slowly and Sherlock strode in just as calmly as he had come up the stairs. 

Mrs. Hudson began sobbing again at the sight of him. “Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock.” 

“Don’t snivel Mrs. Hudson.” He said, scoping out the entirety of the situation. “It’ll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet.” Y/N could see the rage he was trying to contain. “What a tender world that would be.” 

“Oh, please,” Mrs. Hudson breathed. “Sorry, Sherlock.”

“I believe you have something we want, Mr. Holmes.” The leader said. 

Sherlock stepped toward Mrs. Hudson, checking her sleeves and looking her over to deduce what they had done and where the camera phone might be. 

“Then why don’t you ask for it?” Sherlock asked. 

“Oh, I’ve been asking this one, she doesn’t seem to know anything.” He gestured to Mrs. Hudson. “And little miss secret agent wasn’t much help either.” The man winced, and Y/N saw that his cheek was beginning to swell from one of her punches. “But you know what I’m asking for, don’t you Mr. Holmes?”

“I believe I do. First get rid of your boys.” Sherlock negotiated. 

“Why?”

“I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room.” Sherlock glared at the lackeys. 

“You two, go to the car.” The leader commanded. 

“Then get into the car and drive away.” Sherlock added. “Don’t try to trick me, you know who I am, it doesn’t work.”

The goons left as instructed. 

“Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me.” Sherlock said calmly. 

“So you can point a gun at me?” 

Sherlock lifted his arms. “I’m unarmed.” 

“Mind if I check?” 

“Oh, I insist.” Sherlock mocked. 

The leader approached and began to pat Sherlock down. The moment he was behind Sherlock’s back, the detective grabbed an aerosol can from inside his coat and sprayed him in the face. Disoriented, the American had no hope of avoiding the headbut Sherlock hit him with. The CIA agent fell to the floor, unconscious. 

“Oh thank you.” Mrs. Hudson sighed as Sherlock came over and freed her. 

“You’re alright now, you’re alright.” He soothed, gently touching her face. 

Sherlock moved quickly over to Y/N and untied her hands as well. His hand slipped underneath her hair and cradled her neck as he searched her face for trauma or injury. She leaned into his touch before she could think to stop herself. 

“You seem dazed.” He observed clinically. 

“They knocked me out with suffocation.” She said weakly. “Really classy, those guys.” 

Sherlock moved his hand away from her face and squeezed her hand before turning on the knocked out American with a vengeful stare. 

Y/N went to her mother and guided her to the couch, where they embraced and comforted one another. 

Sherlock tied the American to Mrs. Hudson’s chair and gagged him with duct tape. The man awoke to see Sherlock holding him at gunpoint. 

John walked in just about then as well, rather surprised at what had gone on in his absence. 

“Mrs. Hudson and Y/N were attacked by an American.” Sherlock explained. “I’m restoring balance to the universe.” 

John rushed to his friends. “Oh my god. Are you alright?” He asked, distraught. 

Mrs. Hudson began to cry again. “Oh, I’m being so silly!” 

Y/N hugged her mother tightly, beginning to cry a little herself. 

“Jesus, what have they done to you?” John whispered, looking ready to murder the American. 

“Downstairs.” Sherlock ordered. “Take them downstairs and look after them.” 

Mrs. Hudson insisted on going downstairs without help. “I’m fine! I’m fine!” She said. 

Y/N followed on mildly shaky legs, with John close at her heels. The three of them settled in the kitchen where John retrieved the first aid kit. While he cleaned the cut on Mrs. Hudson’s cheek, a figure fell past the window and hit the rubbish bins with a loud crash. 

Several more crashes occurred before sirens signaled Lestrade’s arrival to take the man away. The flashing lights and wailing of emergency vehicles faded into the distance as Sherlock came into kitchen. 

John and Mrs. Hudson sat at the table while Y/N leaned against the counter. Sherlock came to stand next to Y/N. Their shoulders brushed ever so often.

“You’ve got to take some time away from Baker Street.” John said to Mrs. Hudson. “You can go and stay with your sister. Doctor’s orders.” 

“Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock said. 

“She’s in shock, for God’s sake!” John argued. “And all over some bloody stupid camera phone. Where is it anyway?” 

“Safest place I know.” Sherlock answered. 

“You left it in the pocket of your second best dressing gown, you clot.” Mrs. Hudson said, reaching into her shirt and revealing the device. “I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry.” She chuckled. 

Y/N smiled. “That’s my Mum.” 

“Thank you.” Sherlock said to his beloved landlady. “Shame on you, John Watson.” 

“Shame on me?”

“Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street?” Sherlock declared. “England would fall.” 

“Yes, well, I think I’d better turn in.” Mrs. Hudson announced. 

The three friends said their goodnights and retired upstairs for a New Year’s Eve drink. John poured a glass of scotch for himself and one for Y/N while Sherlock put the camera phone away. 

“Where is it now?” John asked when Sherlock returned. 

“Where no one will look.” Sherlock replied, moving to the window and picking up his violin. 

“Whatever’s on that phone is more than just pictures.” 

“Yes it is.” 

Sherlock tuned his instrument. 

“So she’s alive then.” John said. “How are we feeling about that?” 

In the kitchen, Y/N set her glass down, feeling shocked and a shameful feeling of disappointment.

Big Ben tolled midnight. 

“Happy New Year, John. Happy New Year, Y/N.” Sherlock avoided John’s question. 

“Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?” John pressed. 

Sherlock began playing “Auld Lang Syne” and turned away from his friend. Y/N wished them both a hurried “Happy New Year” before getting her coat and leaving, jealous and heartsick once again. 

Sherlock watched Y/N walk across the street, unsure of how he could have made her stay. He wanted her to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh....the burn...so slow....whyyyyy
> 
> As always, I love to hear what you guys think! Please comment!


	13. A Scandal in Belgravia Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being a little shorter than some of the other ones, sorry about that. I probably should have done two instead of three, but I like drawing things out. :D Besides, I have a feeling the conclusion will please you lot.

Mycroft Holmes gazed out of his office window at the London street below. The sun was shining despite the early March cold, and people bustled about, going to work, shopping, getting into taxis, and going about their lives.

When he looked out the window, Mycroft faced completely away from his desk. The top secret files and government memos that lay there were not even visible in his periphery, and it provided the elder Holmes with a few moments of respite in his long days. 

Mycroft smiled at a young boy walking with his mother on the street below. The boy wore a large pirate hat and bounded playfully ahead, and then beckoned his mother like a captain would to a first mate. The sight brought back memories from twenty years past, inciting a strange mix of emotions in Mycroft. 

He shook himself out of his nostalgia at a rustling noise on the other side of his door. 

Mycroft grabbed up his umbrella and strode over. His hand was on the nob when he saw a piece of paper lying on the floor. 

_ Dear Spycroft,  _

_ I didn’t want to disturb with a knock or a phone call, so I am leaving you this note. I know now that Martha Peters’ killer was her boyfriend and I’ve tracked him to a drug smuggling ring in Newham. I’m off to snoop around and get proof. _

_ When I call, please send that military back up you said I have access to (I know you track my phone).  _

_ See you soon!  _

_ Cheers,  _

_ Y/N _

When Mycroft’s phone rang two hours later, the squad of expertly trained ex-police and security officers were already on their way. 

~

Y/N ascended the stairs to 221B, tired, but proud of a job completed. The smile on her face faded when she heard the familiar sultry tones of a Miss. Irene Adler. Y/N stopped in the doorway to see Irene in Sherlock’s chair, John at his desk, and Sherlock sitting next to the desk, talking to the dominatrix. 

Miss. Adler’s hair was wet and she wore Sherlock’s blue dressing gown. Y/N could feel anger itching at her spine, but she willed herself to stay calm. 

“Hello.” She said, as though it were any other day. 

Sherlock, who always expected her to visit in the evenings, went into the kitchen to get her cup of tea while Y/N hung up her coat. 

“Ah, yes. The pet.” Miss. Adler spat. 

Y/N ignored her, accepting the mug of tea from Sherlock with a smile. 

“So you went to the trouble of faking your own death and then told John, and therefore Sherlock, you were alive?” Y/N asked. 

“I knew he would keep my secret.” Irene replied. 

“You couldn’t.” Sherlock pointed out.

“But you did, didn’t you?” Her gaze was intent on Sherlock. “Where’s my camera phone?” 

John scoffed. “It’s not here. We’re not stupid.” 

“Then what have you done with it?” She leaned forward. “If they’ve guessed you’ve got it, they’ll be watching you.” 

“If they’ve been watching me they’ll know I took a safety deposit box on the Strand a few months ago.” 

“I need it.” Miss. Adler insisted. 

“Well, we can’t just go and get it, can we?” John remarked. He paused for a moment in thought before an idea struck him. “Molly Hooper,” He devised. “She could collect and take it to Barts. Then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the cafe and one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back.” 

Sherlock smirked. “Thank you John. An excellent plan, full of intelligent precautions.” 

“Thank you.” John nodded proudly. “So, why don’t I phone-” 

Sherlock; however, already revealed the camera phone from a pocket in his suit. John sighed defeatedly and Y/N covered a chuckle with her teacup. 

Irene stood, growing antsy at the sight of her prized possession. 

“So,” Sherlock asked lazily. “What do you keep on here? In general, I mean?” 

Miss. Adler crossed her arms defiantly. “Pictures, information, anything I might find useful.” 

“For blackmail?” John asked. 

“For protection.” She corrected. “I make my way in the world. I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be.” 

“And how do you get your protection?” Y/N asked. 

“I told you,” Irene said condescendingly. “I misbehave.” 

“But you’ve acquired something that’s more danger than protection.” Sherlock continued. “Do you know what it is?” 

“Yes.” The Woman answered. “But I don’t understand it.” 

“I assumed. Show me.” 

The dominatrix held out her hand for the device. Sherlock held it away from her. 

“The passcode.” He demanded. 

Miss. Adler held her ground. Sherlock passed her the phone. She raised and eyebrow at him before typing in the code. 

The phone buzzed. 

“It’s not working.” She said. 

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “Because it’s a duplicate that I had made into which you’ve just entered the numbers 1058.” Sherlock lifted the cushions on his chair and pulled out the real phone. “I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that, but thanks anyway.”

Sherlock entered in the code, but was met with an identical unhappy buzz. There was one attempt remaining to get the code right. 

“I told you that camera phone was my life.” Miss Adler said. “I know when it’s in my hand.” 

Sherlock held her gaze. “Oh, you’re rather good.” 

“You’re not so bad.” Irene replied flirtatiously. 

Y/N saw the other woman’s pupils begin to dilate, and her pulse was no doubt speeding up as well. The Woman’s body was giving away her attraction, and her hatred of Y/N gave away her jealousy. 

Y/N didn’t think Irene was all that amazing, really. 

“So you don’t know what your latest blackmail means?” Y/N prompted.

“Protection.” Irene said through clenched teeth. “There was a man, and MOD official and I knew what he liked. One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn’t know it, but I photographed it.” Irene handing Sherlock the phone with the photo displayed. “He was a bit tied up at the time. It’s a bit small on that screen, can you read it?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, sitting at his desk. 

“Code, obviously.” Irene said. “I had one of the best cryptographers in the country look at it, though he was mostly upside-down, as I recall. Couldn’t figure it out. What can you do, Mr. Holmes?”

Y/N watched as Sherlock’s mind worked, puzzling and solving while The Woman leaned in the kiss him on the cheek. It gave the MI6 inspector a little hope that Sherlock didn’t seem at all affected when her red lips made contact with his cheekbone. 

“There’s a margin for error, but I’m pretty sure there’s a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6:30 in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it’s going to save the world, I’m not sure how that could be true, but give me a moment, I’ve only been on the case for eight seconds.” 

Y/N stood and walked over to look at the photo over Sherlock’s right shoulder. 

“It’s definitely not code.” Y/N backed him up. “Those are seat assignments on a passenger plane. No letter I, because that gets mistaken for a one. There are no letters beyond K, and the width is the limit. The numbers are random, but the letters have bits of pattern here and there with families and couples together. Jumbo jets are the only type to go all the way to K or have rows after fifty-five.” 

“That’s why there’s an upstairs.” Sherlock took over. “There’s a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there’s the style of the flight number, 007, that eliminates a few more.” 

Sherlock continued, but Y/N had already tuned him out, puzzling over that number, 007. 

Double 0 seven. 

Like James Bond. 

Bond. 

Bond Air. 

“Sherlock.” Y/N breathed, but he didn’t hear her over his rapid fire deductions. “Sherlock stop.” She said louder. 

He paused, looking at her in confusion. While the attention was on Y/N, no one noticed The Woman sending a text.  _ 747 Tomorrow 6:30 pm Heathrow  _

“Oh my god, this was a huge mistake.” Y/N said to herself. “I have to...excuse me.” She muttered, leaving the room to call Mycroft. 

~

Y/N took deep, steadying breaths. She stood, one of only two living humans on an entire jumbo jet filled with dead bodies. Each one was taken from their resting places for the purpose of thwarting a terrorist plot. 

Now, thanks to Sherlock and by some extent herself, the plan was ruined. The silence, the smell, and the guilt made Y/N want to be sick. 

She was calmed slightly by the sound of Sherlock walking up the staircase to the plane. Y/N stood at the entrance to the first class section with Mycroft. 

“The Coventry conundrum.” Mycroft addressed Sherlock. “What do you think of my solution? The flight of the dead.” 

Sherlock looked around, deducing the plan. “Plane blows up mid-air, mission accomplished for the terrorists, hundreds of casualties but nobody dies.”

“Neat, don’t you think?” Mycroft said wanly. “You’ve been stumbling around the fringes of this one for ages. Or were you too bored to notice the pattern? We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn’t make the flight. But that’s the deceased for you: late, in every sense of the word.”

“How is the plane going to fly?―Oh, of course, unmanned aircraft, hardly new.” Sherlock said. 

“It doesn’t fly. It will never fly.” Mycroft corrected. “This entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can’t fool them now. We’ve lost everything. One fragment of one email and months and years of planning, finished.” 

“Your MOD man.” 

“That’s all it takes.” Mycroft agreed. “One, lonely, naive man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special.” 

“Mycroft.” Y/N turned to him, voice soft in warning. 

“You should screen your defence people more carefully.” Sherlock advised. 

“I’m not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock,” Mycroft began to yell. “I’m talking about you!”

Y/N put a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “Please, don’t do this to him.” She whispered. 

He ignored her. “The damsel in distress. In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook. The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle and watch him dance.” Mycroft twirled his umbrella mockingly. 

“Don’t be absurd!” Sherlock protested. 

“Absurd?” Mycroft challenged. “How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute, or were you really eager to impress?” 

The sultry voice of Irene Adler came from the door of the plane. “I think it was less than five seconds.” 

“I drove you into her path.” Mycroft lamented. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” 

“Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk.” The Woman declared, walking forward. 

“So do I.” Sherlock agreed. “There are a number of aspects I’m still not quite clear on.” 

Irene pushed him aside. “Not you, Junior, you’re done now.” She dismissed. 

Y/N watched as the dominatrix waved her phone around tauntingly, threatening Mycroft with its contents. Y/N clenched her jaw at the infuriating sight of the phone screen. 

_ I am _ _ _ _ locked. _

_ I am….locked.  _

Y/N puzzled at the endless possibilities of passcodes for Miss. Adler’s phone. It was hopeless. As hopeless as the heartbroken expression on Sherlock’s face. 

Y/N’s stomach clenched in sympathy and jealousy at the way he watched her. Y/N hated how Irene toyed with him. She clearly had feelings for him, and he for her, so why-

_ Wait a minute.  _

Y/N stepped forward and interrupted the dominatrix’s smug monologue by snatching the camera phone from her hand. 

“Wha-” Irene spluttered in surprise. 

“Y/N, no.” Sherlock tried to stop her. “There’s only one attempt-” 

“Trust me. Please.” Y/N insisted. “This camera phone is Irene Adler’s life.” Y/N leveled a withering gaze at The Woman. “It’s also her heart.” 

_ I am _ _ _ _ locked _

Y/N typed in four letters. S. H. E. R. 

_I am_ _S_ _H_ _E_ _R_ _locked._

The phone beeped as it unlocked. 

Y/N handed the phone to Mycroft. “There. I hope this makes up for the loss of Bond Air.” 

Mycroft took the phone, stunned. “I...I’m sure it will.” 

On her way off the plane, Y/N said one last thing to Irene. “I have news for you honey, I  **am** something because I run around and solve crimes. I hope you’ll remember that. I am the woman who beat  _ you _ .”

“If you’re feeling kind, lock her up, otherwise let her go. I doubt she’ll survive long without her ‘protection.’” Sherlock all but whispered, giving The Woman one last undecipherable glance before following Y/N. 

~

“Is that the file on Irene Adler?” John asked, sitting around a tiny table in Speedy’s Cafe with Y/N and Mycroft. Rain poured on the street outside. 

“Closed forever.” Mycroft replied. “I am about to go and inform my brother, or, if you prefer, you are, that she somehow got herself into a Witness Protection scheme in America. New name, new identity. She will survive and thrive, but he will never see her again.” 

“Why would he care?” John wondered. “He despised her at the end. Won’t even mention her by name, just The Woman.” 

Y/N kept silent, staring into the stained water of her teacup. 

“Is that loathing, or a salute?” Mycroft argued. “One of a kind, the one woman who matters?” 

“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” Y/N spoke up, but kept her gaze on the cup in her hands. “He was trying to distance himself from the hurt of it. From her.” 

“My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?” Mycroft sat back, watching Y/N curiously. 

“I don’t know.” John admitted. 

“Neither do I.” Mycroft concurred. “But initially, he wanted to be a pirate.” 

At that, Y/N finally looked up, smiling softly. 

“He’ll be okay with this, Witness Protection, never seeing her again. He’ll be fine.” John concluded. 

“I agree.” Said Mycroft. “That’s why I decided to tell him that.” 

“Instead of what?” John asked after a pause. 

“She’s dead.” Y/N guessed, sounding melancholy. 

“She was captured by a terrorist cell in Kurachi two months ago and beheaded.” Mycroft elaborated. 

John cleared his throat. “It was definitely her? She’s done this before.”

“I was thorough this time.” Mycroft assured. He pushed the file across the table. “So, what shall we tell Sherlock?”

~

Y/N stayed away while John told Sherlock the bit about Witness Protection. Hours later, while John was out on a date, she entered the flat to find him working on his new violin piece again. 

“Sherlock?” She said quietly. 

He stopped playing, but continued to stare out the window into the rain. “You’ve come to tell me the truth, then.” 

“She died, Sherlock.” Y/N broke the news. “Two months ago in Karachi.” 

“I know.” He replied. 

Y/N sighed, sinking down into John’s chair. “Of course you do.” 

“I almost went.” He said quietly, turning around and revealing a rare expression of sadness. “I nearly infiltrated a terrorist cell to free her.” 

“Why didn’t you?” 

Sherlock stared intently at Y/N. “I don’t know.” He whispered. 

She reached forward and squeezed his hand. He turned his hand so that their palms were touching. Y/N felt her stomach begin to flutter and knew her pulse was picking up. She gently pulled away, holding Sherlock’s gaze despite the breathless feeling she got from the intensity of his bright blue eyes. 

Sherlock returned to his violin while Y/N searched the bookshelf for something to read. The tall detective shuffled the papers of music around, subtly trying to hide the front page of his piece from view. 

It was titled: “Y/N.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that? A romantic side? Of Sherlock? That I see there??   
> Hope you liked it, and aren't too upset that I strayed from canon and killed Irene. Whoops. 
> 
> (No new chapter next week, I'll be chilling out in a cabin near a lake without wifi)


	14. The Copper Beeches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? I've found a local library!! And even better than that, it has WiFi!!!!!!!! 
> 
> Here - a little bit late - is the next chapter of our story. Based on "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Y/N Hudson tackles a Holmes-level case on her own....
> 
>  
> 
> (spoiler alert: she totally crushes it)

“I have an assignment for you.” Mycroft declared, barging into Y/N’s office. 

Y/N looked up from her book as she relaxed in her armchair. She smiled brightly and made her way over to her desk. Mycroft settled himself in the chair opposite her with his legs crossed and his back straight, looking gentlemanly or ― as John might say ― like he had a stick up his arse. 

Mycroft slid a file across the desk. “Three women have gone missing in the past several weeks. Evelyn Tyree, Katie Everett, and most recently, Violet Hunter. The only links between them are that they were all within the first two weeks of nanny jobs for wealthy couples around the city.” 

Y/N studied the photos and documents in her hands.

“The assignment is for you to assume the identity of a hopeful nanny and accept one of the various open positions around the city. The girls have likely been murdered, so if you cannot find them, find their killer.” 

Mycroft handed Y/N another file. “Here is the background you’ll need for your role. Your name is Catherine James and you go by ‘Cat.’ You have,” Mycroft consulted his watch, “Two hours to study before an interview in Chelsea with a Mr. and Mrs. O'Connell.”

Y/N nodded. “I’m on it, Spycroft.” 

The government official sighed deeply as he got up to leave. 

 

The O’Connells were a very ordinary couple. The husband, Mark, worked in finance and the wife, Eileen, was a PR representative for a pharmaceutical company. They were both in their mid-forties and clearly accustomed to a lavish lifestyle. Their son Edward seemed to be a normal eleven-year-old kid, if a bit spoiled and obsessed with his phone. 

Mrs. O’Connell was having an affair and Mr. O’Connell spent more time with the family dog than his son. Y/N was certain that they were not behind the mysterious disappearances. She was about to excuse herself when the job became a lot more interesting. 

“You would be working at our home in Winchester.” Mrs. O’Connell said. 

“Well, the estate belongs to one of my oldest friends but ever since his daughter moved to Philadelphia he’s been letting us stay there with Eddie.” Mr. O’Connell corrected. 

“Yes, yes.” Mrs. O’Connell waved her hand dismissively. “Anyway, I think that spending as much time away from the city is best for Edward so we always send his nanny with him to Hampshire while we’re working.” 

“Will your friend be there?” Y/N asked casually. 

“Oh he won’t give you any trouble. Jephro’s a very nice fellow and he mostly stays in his own wing of the house anyway.” Mr. O’Connell assured her. 

“Jephro? That’s an interesting name. Is it a family name?” Y/N prompted, searching for a last name too.

“Jephro Rucastle.” Mr. O’Connell mused. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.” 

Y/N laughed good naturedly. 

“Well,” Mrs. O’Connell clasped her hands together. “You’ve lived up to the glowing recommendations from the agency and your last family, Cat. We’d love to have you on as Edward’s nanny.” 

“I’d love to be his nanny.” Y/N agreed congenially.

She watched as the boy squished a spider under his thumb gleefully. She made sure to keep her smile in place. 

“Can you start Monday? That’ll give you the weekend to pack and whatnot before the train to Winchester at 10.” 

“Sounds wonderful. I’ll see you then.” Y/N stood and shook hands with the parents before making her exit. 

Back at the MI6 building, she went to visit Mycroft. She filled him in on what happened in the meeting. 

“Have your people do a check on a Jephro Rucastle. I’m going to try to learn more when I’m in Hampshire, but I’d like to know what I’m walking into first.” 

“There will be agents stationed in the town who will be checking in and you’ll be issued a panic button in case you’re targeted as the next victim. I’ll give you a full briefing Monday morning before you get on the train.” Mycroft said. 

Y/N smiled. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t be sentimental, Y/N. It is only part of protocol.” Mycroft said primly.

“Uh huh.” Y/N said facetiously. 

“Don’t you have packing to do?” Mycroft prompted. “A car will come for you at seven on Monday.” 

~

The weekend flew past in a blur of suitcases, sweaters, and background research on childcare from various nannying blogs and online forums. Y/N did; however, leave Sunday evening clear for a quick visit to Baker Street. 

“Undercover? That does sound terribly exciting!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed when Y/N told her about the job. 

“And potentially dangerous.” John grumbled. 

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” Y/N reassured. “It shouldn’t take more than a few days to solve this one.” 

Sherlock said barely anything that evening. He was in the midst of a case himself, and while the other three sipped their tea and chatted, the great detective was immersed in his mind palace. 

John agreed to fill him in on Y/N’s behalf. 

“Goodbye Sherlock.” She said quietly to him on her way out the door, even though he wasn’t listening. 

 

Across the city, Mycroft’s phone pinged in his pocket. He opened the text from his brother. 

_ Protocol requires at least three at least three agents to be within half a mile of an undercover investigator. I trust you’ve assigned six to go to Hampshire tomorrow.  _

Mycroft put the phone away, chuckling. 

 

Y/N, or rather Cat, sat for an hour and half on the train watching as morning in London became morning in the suburbs. 

“So what you’re favorite book, Edward?” Y/N asked, trying to get to know her charge a bit better. 

The boy didn’t reply. He was immersed in some sort of game on his mobile phone. 

“Edward? Did you hear me?” Y/N tried again, asking in a sweet voice, despite her frustration. 

“Hm.” Edward hummed in a monotone, showing that he heard, but wasn’t listening. 

“Well, enjoy the game, I suppose.” She sighed before sitting back in her seat and opening the book she’d brought along for the trip. 

The train reached Winchester at 11:34, and Y/N found herself wishing for three hands instead of the two she already had. Her right hand was occupied with rolling her suitcase, the left with holding onto Edward so that he wouldn’t wander off as his eyes were glued to the screen in his hand and left him with no awareness of the world around him. To top it off, Edward’s backpack, which she couldn’t persuade him to carry, kept slipping off of her right shoulder, and whacking her in the ribs. 

Y/N was a mess, but grateful, when a chauffeur called Toller met them at the entrance and helped her heave the bags into a large SUV. 

Toller was a tall, thin man deep in the throes of alcoholism. He seemed to be in his early fifties with thinning brown hair and eyes sunk into his face. Toller didn’t seem to want look at her straight on, preferring the excuse of watching the road or his own shoes. Though slender, Y/N could tell he was no stranger to physical labor and could easily incapacitate and carry another person, especially a young woman. 

“How long have you worked for Mr. Rucastle?” Y/N asked pleasantly. 

“Sixteen years.” Toller replied. 

“Wow, that’s some loyalty right there. I’ve been working this job for about sixteen hours!” Y/N giggled. “It seems so out dated now that Mr. Rucastle doesn’t drive himself. Well then, I suppose my generation was the one really obsessed with getting our licenses.” 

“Mr. Rucastle does drive himself. I’m usually the groundskeeper, but today he asked me to act as chauffeur.” Toller corrected. 

“Oh! Silly me.” Y/N giggled again. 

They arrived at Kilham Lane a few minutes before noon. 

“Welcome to the Copper Beeches.” Toller said in a monotone over the simulated gunshot noises coming from Edward’s phone. 

“Thank you.” She said with pretend warmth, getting out of the vehicle. 

The house was a sizeable cottage, built in the Victorian style, and from the worn exterior, likely hadn’t been painted since its construction. The entire street was lined by neatly trimmed hedges, and the Rucastle home was surrounded on three sides by the same natural fences. Copper beech trees lined the walk all the way up to the ornate front door, giving the house its name. 

Y/N rolled her suitcase with one hand and guided Edward ― whose gaze was still locked on his phone ― by the elbow with the other as they approached the disheveled abode. The front door opened inwardly, revealing a short, portly man in a three piece suit. He was nearly bald, save for a semi-circle of hair around the back of his skull and a thick grey moustache above his upper lip. He smiled a wide, toothy smile that accentuated the roundness of his cheeks. 

“Hello there!” He boomed in a jolly voice, descending the front steps with his hand extended for a handshake. “Jephro Rucastle, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”  

Y/N matched his strong grip and smiled beatifically. “Catherine James. Please call me Cat.” 

“Welcome, Cat!” Mr. Rucastle gestured to the house. “Come in, come in! You must be hungry. My wife was just making some sandwiches!” 

With that, Y/N and Edward were swept inside by their jovial host. 

Mrs. Rucastle was a quiet, bland woman, the perfect foil for her boisterous spouse. She wore neutral colors that only served to make her fair skin look even paler. She barely spoke three words all together to Y/N on the first day. Despite her silence, Y/N saw that Mrs. Rucastle held a deep regard for her husband as she was constantly glancing at him. Y/N was unsure whether these glances were out of fear or out of love. The puffiness around Mrs. Rucastle’s eyes and the emotion contain within her irises spoke of a hidden sadness in the older woman. 

“Are you from Hampshire, Mrs. Rucastle?” Y/N asked. 

“No, not originally.” The older woman replied. 

Y/N waited for her to go on, but her hostess had already retreated back into her favored state of silence. 

“How long have you lived here? It’s a charming home.” Y/N tried again. 

“Oh, some twenty years or so.” 

Again, Mrs. Rucastle disappeared.  

As if sensing the growing awkwardness in the air, Mr. Rucastle swept into action. 

“Cat!” He boomed. “Let’s take the grand tour, shall we? I have a feeling you’re going to adore the parlour.” 

They departed from the dining room, and went directly into the parlour. It was a sunny room, nicely furnished and well cleaned. The walls were painted a soft yellow and decorated with various framed family photographs. The sofa faced a large bay window overlooking the front yard and street beyond. A large wingback chair sat across from the sofa, facing away from the window. The study was cozier, and clearly only used by Mr. Rucastle. 

“Not much to see here, I’m afraid. Terribly boring business.” He excused, rushing Y/N out and into the library. 

The kitchen had the scent of citrus infused cleaning supplies, and Y/N suspected that a cook or a maid was employed for the preparation of dinners at the Copper Beeches. Mr. Rucastle pulled a ring of keys from his belt to open a door next to the oven, revealing steps to the basement, where the laundry room could be found. 

“I’ll remind Toller to keep this door unlocked while you’re here. So you needn’t worry about being trapped without clean laundry.” Mr. Rucastle assured. 

“Thank you.” Y/N giggled, while committing the key to memory. 

Upstairs, Y/N’s room was small, only fitting a double bed, a desk with a lamp on it, and a small closet. Next door was Edward’s room, which looked the same, only painted olive green instead of light blue and had a chest of drawers instead of a desk. The master bedroom and bathroom were on the other end of the hallway. 

A narrow wooden staircase led to an apartment on the third floor. 

“Is that where Toller lives?” Y/N asked. 

“Oh, no.” Mr. Rucastle began to usher her away. “Toller lives in a smaller cottage down the road a ways. We had to close the attic off four years back due to mold that had been growing.” 

Not only was he clearly lying, but Y/N watched him protectively brush at the pocket of his suit jacket where she heard the muffled jingle of the key ring.  

The backyard was spacious and well kept. The grass was a picturesque shade of green, complimented by the colorful garden beds bordering the lawn. A large dog house stood in the farthest left corner, surrounded by an industrial metal fence. 

“What sort of dog do you have, Mr. Ruscastle?” Y/N inquired. 

“A mastiff.” He said proudly. “Carlo. He’s a brilliant hunting dog, but he can be a tad aggressive.”

“Oh dear, then I’ll be careful not to offend him.” Y/N joked.

“Toller lets him out at night, so I would avoid the yard after sunset if I were you.” Mr. Rucastle warned, though he kept a smile plastered across his face. 

Mr. Rucastle placed his hand on Y/N’s back and steered her back inside with a little more force than she would have deemed necessary. With the tour over, Y/N began her investigation in earnest. 

There was no question that if someone were being kept in this house, the attic is where they’d be. Y/N resolved to get the keys, save the other women, and get out of there as fast as she could. 

~

It took three days to gain access to the attic. 

On the first day, Y/N was introduced to even more of the odd behavior of the inhabitants of the Copper Beeches. She was “gifted” an old blue dress that previously belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle’s daughter, who was conveniently the same size as her. After several minutes of pressuring and persuading, Y/N obliged her hosts and put on the dress. She was then asked to sit with them in parlour. 

They had her sit the armchair in front of the window, while Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle sat across from her on the sofa. 

“Do you enjoy reading, Cat?” Mr. Rucastle had asked. 

“I do, actually.” Y/N answered, trying not to sound as though she were suspicious of him. 

“And what do you read?” 

“Novels, mostly. Dark romanticism is one of my favorite genres.” She replied. 

“Ah, so you enjoy the Brontë sisters?” 

Y/N nodded in affirmation of his guess. Mr. Rucastle exclaimed excitedly and left the room to go get a rare edition of  Wuthering Heights for Y/N to peruse. While she flipped through the old pages, Mr. Rucastle strolled about the room and regaled her with a hilarious story about his youth. Y/N laughed when she was supposed to, but listened to barely any of it. She was too busy devising some way to see out of the window. 

It was clear that the Rucastles wanted the outside world to see a young woman in a blue dress reading and laughing, but that she was not to see whoever was out there. Mrs. Rucastle gave away this scheme by constantly cutting her gaze between her husband, and a fixed point over Y/N’s shoulder. 

After about an hour of the bizarre exercize, Mrs. Rucastle nodded slightly at her husband and he finished his story, took back the novel, and released Y/N to the rest of her day. 

~

The second day, they repeated the same routine of the blue dress, the chair, and the stories. This time; however, Y/N was prepared. 

She had detached the mirror from her make-up compact, and placed it inside a handkerchief. During the climax of one of Mr. Rucastle’s stories, she feigned wiping away tears of mirth with the cloth, and took a quick look in the reflection. 

A young man stood at the end of the front walkway, watching her. She put the handkerchief down again, not wanting to be caught peeking, but pretended another tear a few minutes later, just in time to see the man turn and walk away dejectedly. When she looked back at her hosts, she saw Mrs. Rucastle nod once again at her husband, and the story was over. 

Later that same day, Y/N made up some errands and took a walk into town. She bought some snacks at the supermarket, window shopped, and eventually wound up in a little boutique that just so happened to be the check-in point for her investigation. While she browsed the racks, another woman entered the shop and started looking through skirts on the other side of the rack. 

“Fantastic day today, don’t you think?” The woman mused. 

“Yes, and it looks like the sunshine will keep up until the day after tomorrow. I hear it’s going to rain.” Y/N replied, keeping steady eye contact. 

“Good to know, I’ll be sure to bring an umbrella.” The woman replied. 

“Might want a raincoat as well. It’ll be really pouring.” 

The woman nodded. No more words were exchanged between the investigator and the agent as Y/N finished looking around and decided to leave without buying anything. 

On her return to the house she ran into Toller on the second floor. He had slipped a ring of keys into his pocket before nodding politely at her and going downstairs. 

Once he was out of sight, Y/N carefully climbed the stairs to attic door. It was locked, but the dust on the floor had been disturbed recently. Toller had been inside. 

~

On the third day, after the routine of the blue dress and the story, Mr. Rucastle announced that he and his wife would be going out to see a play that evening. Y/N was to stay with Edward, and Toller would help them with anything should they need it. 

The sun got lower and lower in the sky as emerged from her room just as Mr. Rucastle was doing the same and accidentally collided with Mr. Rucastle on the stairs. 

He was too busy apologizing to realize his keys were missing. 

Y/N waved the couple off as they drove away in Mr. Rucastle’s expensive old car. She returned inside, and made sure Edward was in his room. 

“Edward?” She said loudly. 

He didn’t move a muscle, his eyes focused on his phone and his ears covered by expensive headphones. He didn’t even notice her presence.

“Mr. Toller?” She called out into the hallway. 

The tall man’s footsteps came up the stairs shortly. He moved slower than usual, and a little off balance. He’d been drinking. 

“Could you help me get my laundry downstairs?” She asked innocently. “The basket is really heavy and I can’t maneuver it.” 

“Yeah alright.” Toller grumbled before relieving her of the basket and leading the way to the basement. 

She held the door open for him, remembering the key she’d seen Mr. Rucastle use on the door on the first day at the Copper Beeches. Y/N followed Toller into the basement, but stopped at the top of the stairs while he descended into the damp darkness. 

She dashed back out of the doorway and firmly closed the door, turning the key in the lock and trapping Toller. She dragged a chair away from the kitchen table and propped it under the doorknob for good measure. By the time she was back on the second floor, she could hear him banging on the cellar door and shouting at her to let him out. 

With quiet precision, she tested each key on the attic door until one fit and allowed her entry into the mysterious third floor apartment. 

Dim light filtered in through boarded up windows, casting long shadows across every surface. Y/N walked in slowly, finding the first room ― an old sitting room ― empty. The entire suite smelled musty and old. Dust floated in the air, glittering as it passed through a beam of evening light. 

There were doors to her right and left, promising more discovery. Y/N debated which one to enter when a shadow passed on the other side of the left door. Y/N crept forward and gingerly turned the handle. 

A figure came flying at her, landing a punch on Y/N’s right shoulder accompanied by a swift kick to the shin. Y/N bent over, hissing in pain. She put her arms up to shield herself from a  second attack.

“Violet, stop!” A hoarse voice shouted. “It’s not him!” 

Y/N regained her composure, standing up. “I’m here to help you.” She said.

A young woman about the same height as Y/N stood in front of her, fear and desperation making her eyes wild. Her hair hadn’t been washed in a long time, and she looked slightly malnourished. 

“Violet Hunter?” Y/N asked. 

The young woman nodded. Y/N looked past her to see another girl sitting against the wall. She was in much worse shape than Violet. Her skin was sallow and dirty, her clothes torn and a size too big because of how much weight she’d lost from near starvation. She had a nasty wound on her leg that was bound by a recently replaced bandage. 

“And you’re Katie Everett?” Y/N asked.

“Yes.”

“Where’s Evelyn Tyree?” Y/N addressed this question to both women, looking around for the first missing woman. 

“Who?”

“I don’t know that name.” 

Y/N grimaced, but carried on. “I’m Y/N Hudson, I work with MI6.” 

She grasped the locket around her neck and opened it to reveal a small red button. She pressed it. Time for the umbrella and the raincoat. 

“Several other agents will be here shortly along with medical and law enforcement officers. Right now, though, we need to get out of this attic.” Y/N moved over to Katie and put and arm under her shoulder. “Violet, please help me carry Katie.”

The three young women were nearly out the front door when Mr. Rucastle’s car returned. 

“Shit.” Y/N cursed as the burly man hurried up the walkway looking terribly angry. 

“Leaving, Cat?” He called to her. “That’s all they ever want to do, these young women. Leave.” He was growing hysterical. “I had to stop my Olivia from going, but that only caused problems and since then it’s been all the same. Well not this time!” He roared, changing course and charging into the backyard instead of the house. 

“He’s getting the dog!” Violet exclaimed in terror. 

Katie began to cry and held her injured leg. “Not again.” 

“He’s not there yet.” Y/N said. “Our best shot is to run. Right now.” 

“I don’t know if I can.” Katie sobbed. 

“We’ll carry you.” Violet promised. 

“Go!” Y/N screamed as they steeled their courage and plunged past the beeches, trying to reach the road. 

Halfway there, Violet tripped on an unseen rock and stumbled. She lost her grip on Katie, who nearly collapsed to the ground with only Y/N to support her. Violet made the mistake of looking back and froze with fear when she saw the huge black mastiff loping out of its enclosure, teeth bared. 

Y/N tried in vain to lift Katie and grab Violet so that they could keep running. Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, and she wished she’d said a better goodbye to her friends as Carlo let loose a bone-chilling howl. 

The three women gripped each other and prepared for the worst. 

A man’s bellow cut through the darkness as the three women watched the dog attack his own master, burying its teeth in his throat. 

Y/N shook herself into action.

“Go!” She shouted again, and thankfully Violet listened. 

They limped the rest of the way to the road as a sleek black van pulled up accompanied by two police cars and an ambulance. MI6 agents spilled from the van and ran to the house at Y/N’s instruction, with orders to arrest Mr. Rucastle and Toller and subdue the dog. 

Y/N saw that Violet and Katie were put safely in the hands of paramedics before running back to the house herself to get Edward.

She passed Carlo, tranquilized and laying on the lawn next to Mr. Rucastle, bleeding but still alive enough to be put in handcuffs. Two officers walked by with Toller as Y/N made her way to the stairs. 

“Edward?” She shouted. “Are you alright?”

He was in the same spot as when she’d left him, blissfully unaware of his surroundings. Y/N’s forehead stung with how hard she facepalmed. 

~

“There was a history of mental instability in the Rucastle family to begin with, and Jephro Rucastle had separation issues from the death of his parents when he was a boy. A few months ago, when his daughter Olivia announced she would be moving in with her boyfriend ― a young man who lived a few houses down the street ― Jephro took it extremely hard. So hard, in fact, that he murdered his own daughter. 

“To cover his tracks, he began advising his friends that nannies fitting a similar description to both his daughter and I were the best kind of nannies. Being the biased jerks they are, they believed him, and hired according to his advised specifications. Once at the Copper Beeches, we were made to wear her clothes and sit and laugh in view of her former boyfriend, so that he might think she’s alive and well despite not answering his calls. 

“If an Olivia stand-in was caught looking at the boyfriend during the morning exercise or asking too many questions, she was locked away. If she tried to escape, the dog was set on her. I believe that is how Evelyn was killed, and I know that is how Katie was injured. I would suggest checking the premises for the two missing bodies. I would look in the basement and the area behind the dog house.” 

Y/N concluded her case findings, sitting once again in the familiar office of Mycroft Holmes. 

“Excellent work, Y/N.” Mycroft praised, closing the file in front of him. “I’ll be sure to give you more undercover work in the future.” 

Y/N smiled. “I’m up for it. Just no more giant dogs, please.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, irony... 
> 
> As always, please comment and elt me know what you thought! Did you love it? Hate it? Do you miss Sherlock too (sorry for only the brief cameo)?
> 
> "The Hounds of Baskerville" starts Wednesday! Get excited!


	15. The Hounds of Baskerville Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it Wednesday already??? Where does the time go?  
> Here is a bit of a treat, and extra long chapter infused with a touch of love (this is one of my favorite episodes). Enjoy!

All was quiet in 221B Baker Street. John sat in his chair, puttering away on his laptop. No humming or “yoohoo-ing” came from Mrs. Hudson’s flat, and Y/N hadn’t yet returned from some undercover work in Kent. Sherlock was out on another case. The tall detective had been investigating mystery after mystery non-stop since about the same time Y/N had left a week and half ago. John almost wished Y/N wasn’t quite so good at her job, because then Mycroft might keep her in London with them for longer periods of time. 

The door swung open with a bang. There stood Sherlock, spattered in blood from head to toe, and weilding an antique harpoon.

“Well that was tedious.” Sherlock sighed. 

“You went on the tube like that?” John asked incredulously. 

“None of the cabs would take me.” Sherlock growled, stalking off to shower and change. 

He returned with the harpoon still in hand, but at least he’d put on a clean shirt and pants. His blue dressing gown whipped around his legs as the detective paced back and forth in front of the sofa. 

“Nothing?” He asked impatiently. 

“Military coup in Uganda.” John said, flipping through the paper. 

“Hm.”

“Hm.” John chuckled, coming across the infamous deerstalker hat picture. “Another photo of you with the, er-”  
Sherlock leaned over John’s shoulder. “Oh.” He scoffed. 

John kept looking. “Well, erm, Cabinet reshuffle?”

“Nothing of importance?” Sherlock tossed the harpoon between his hands. 

“Haven’t heard from Y/N yet, no.” John quipped, smiling smugly. 

Sherlock gave his flatmate a venomous stare. He hadn’t seen or heard from her in 272 hours. Not that  _ that _ was what was bothering him. 

_ No.  _ He thought.

_ No, it was the lack of important cases. The lack of intellectual exercise.  _

Sherlock slammed the end of the harpoon into the floor. “Oh God!” He shouted, frustrated. 

“John,” His tone shifted. “I need some. Get me some.” 

“I just told you, Y/N isn’t back yet.” John teased, laughing at his own joke. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You know what I meant. Get me some.” 

“No.” John said, growing serious. “No. Cold turkey we agreed, no matter what.” John returned to the paper. “Anyway you’ve paid everyone off. Nobody within a two-mile radius will sell you any.”

“Stupid idea.” Sherlock grumbled. “Whose idea was that?” 

John cleared his throat. Cursing himself inwardly, Sherlock decided to change tactics. 

“Mrs. Hudson!” He bellowed before beginning to wreck the place, throwing papers and opening boxes and drawers in search of cigarettes. 

“Look, Sherlock, you’re doing really well. Don’t give up now!” John scolded. 

Sherlock continued his search. “Tell me where they are! Please, tell me. Please.”

“Can’t help, sorry.” 

Sherlock turned to bribery. “I’ll tell you next week’s lottery numbers.”  

John laughed at that. 

“It was worth a try.” Sherlock muttered. 

The curly-haired addict had begun rummaging around in the fireplace when Mrs. Hudson arrived with her signature “Yoo-hoo.”

“My secret supply, what have you done with my secret supply?” He demanded. 

“Eh?” She asked. 

“Cigarettes,” He was growing even more impatient. “What have you done with them? Where are they?” 

“You never let me touch your things!” Mrs. Hudson protested. “Oh chance would be a fine thing.” 

“I thought you weren’t my housekeeper.” Sherlock spat. 

“I’m not.” Mrs. Hudson agreed. 

“Argh!” Sherlock yelled, barrelling back across the room. And grabbed his harpoon again. Mrs. Hudson looked to John, who used not-so-subtle hand code to give her an idea. 

“How about a nice cuppa and perhaps you could put away your harpoon?” She suggested gently. 

“I need something stronger than tea. Seven percent stronger.” He whirled around maniacally and leveled the harpoon at his landlady. “You’ve been to see Mr. Chatterjee again.” 

“Pardon?” She asked. 

“Sandwich shop. That’s a new dress, but there’s flour on the sleeve. You wouldn’t dress like that for baking.” He began to deduce. 

“Sherlock…” John warned. 

“Thumbnail. Tiny traces of foil.” Sherlock continued. “Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where that leads, don’t we.” He inhaled deeply. “Mmmm Kasbah Nights. Pretty racy for a Monday morning, wouldn’t you agree? I’ve written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It’s on the website, you should look it up!”

“Please!” Mrs. Hudson begged. 

“Don’t pin your hopes from that cruise with Mr. Chatterjee, he’s got a wife in Doncaster that nobody knows about.” 

“Sherlock!” John shouted. 

“Well, nobody except me.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I really don’t!” Mrs. Hudson declared shrilly, before fleeing Sherlock’s scrutiny. 

Sherlock jumped into his chair, pulled his knees up to his chest and rocked back and forth in the seat. 

“What the bloody hell was that all about?” John demanded. 

“You don’t understand.” 

“Go after her and apologize.” 

Sherlock raised his head and stared at the doctor. “Apologize?”

John nodded. “Mm hm.” 

“Oh, John, I envy you so much.” Sherlock sighed. 

John straightened up. “You envy me?” 

“Your mind, it’s so placid, straight forward, barely used.” Sherlock said. “Mine’s like an engine, racing out of control. A rocket tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad. I need a case!” He yelled. 

“You’ve just solved one!” John lost his temper. “By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!” 

“Oh good lord.” 

The boys turned to face the voice coming from the doorway. Y/N observed them from the doorway, leaning with her hip against the wood. Sherlock stood suddenly, but didn’t go to her. He merely stared. 

“I leave for two minutes and you’re harpooning things. I thought you promised not to do anything fun without me!” She teased, taking off her coat. 

John got up and gave her a big brotherly hug. “How was Kent?” 

“Lovely.” Y/N smiled. “Not here though.” 

Sherlock hadn’t moved from his spot, he was still frozen, staring. Y/N didn’t think twice about it, as she was distracted on how the white of his dress shirt brought out the blue of his eyes. Were his eyes always that striking? She’d missed him so much while she was away.

Y/N shook herself away from that train of thought and reverted back to the comfort of cold observation. 

She addressed Sherlock with a knowing grin. “You haven’t slept in days, probably case hopping based on the conversation you were having with John. One of them involved a dog. You really want a cigarette, and you’ve just been searching for some, but we both know you won’t find any. Have you checked the website for cases yet today?” 

The tall man folded his arms and mirrored her smile. “You solved your case successfully, but you were bored half to death in the debrief that went late into last night. Your case also involved a dog. You haven’t eaten since yesterday, probably lunch, and you’re itching to make a cup of tea since you skipped one at your apartment in the rush to get here after waking up late.” Sherlock finished, before gesturing to the kitchen. 

Y/N obliged. While she put the kettle on, Sherlock picked up his laptop and handed it to John. 

“‘Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’” He paraphrased. “‘I can’t find Bluebell anywhere. Please, please, please can you help?’”

“Bluebell?” John asked. 

“A rabbit, John!” Sherlock explained, becoming agitated again. “Ah, but there’s more. Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous. ‘Like a fairy,’ according to little Kirsty. Then the next morning, Bluebell was gone. Hutch still locked. No sign of a forced entry.” 

“Freaky.” Y/N called sarcastically from the kitchen. 

“This is brilliant! Phone Lestrade. Tell him there’s an escaped rabbit!” Sherlock ordered John. 

“Are you serious?” 

Y/N walked back in and perched on the arm of John’s chair with her tea. 

“It’s this or Cluedo.” Sherlock declared. 

Y/N laughed, but John paled and got up, returning the laptop to the desk. “We are never playing that again.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked. 

“Because it’s not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock. That’s why.” John explained.

“Yeah but there’s no real deductions to be done, it’s all elimination and chance.” Y/N offered.

“It was the only possible solution.” Sherlock argued. 

“It’s not in the rules.” 

“Well then the rules are wrong!” Sherlock shouted. 

_ Ring.  _

Everyone paused. 

“A single ring.” Said John. 

“Maximum pressure, just under the half second.” Added Sherlock. 

Y/N smiled. “Client.” 

~

_ “Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound.”  _

That single sentence, uttered by one Henry Knight, compelled Sherlock Holmes to take on the mysterious case from Devon. 

The young man was haunted by the violent death of his father one night on the moor, years ago. Knight described an enormous creature with red eyes and black fur tearing his dad apart. He was convinced the creature had come from the Baskerville lab. 

The night before his visit to Baker Street, he ventured back into the hollow where his father met his end. What he found drove him to seek out the help of Sherlock Holmes. 

_ “Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound.” _

 

The twelve o’clock train from London to Devon rattled along its tracks. Sherlock and Y/N sat next to each other with John in the seat across from them. John spent the first twenty minutes of the trip checking out a lady sitting on the other side of the car before getting up to go flirt with her. Sherlock was glued to his phone, doing research for the case. Y/N leaned her head against the window and watched the scenery fly past. Still exhausted from the late night debrief, the motion of the train and muffled humming of the tracks had her drifting off in no time. 

_ “The experiments at Baskerville…” “Top secret…” “Genetic mutation…”  _

Sherlock paused his online article frenzy as he felt something touch his shoulder. Y/N had shifted in her sleep. Drawn to the warmth of another person, her head rested comfortably on his shoulder as she sighed. 

Sherlock froze. 

He felt the calming pattern of her breathing. He looked at her hands. He could smell her shampoo. He wanted to know what she was dreaming about. 

Sherlock supported Y/N with his left hand while he relaxed into the seat. He moved closer to his companion and turned towards her a bit. He gently settled her back against him, this time with his right arm around her, and her head resting on his shoulder. 

He watched her for a moment, tracing her face with his gaze. He gently touched the fading white line above her eyebrow where she’d been cut after the explosion on Baker Street. 

Something inside of him twinged at the memory of that night. She’d been so lifeless, bleeding on the floor. He remembered crawling to her and saying her name and holding her in fear. Sherlock’s hand lingered on the side of her face. 

Y/N hummed in her sleep and she shifted slightly. 

Sherlock dropped his hand, frowning. 

_ What was he doing? _ They had a case to work on. He picked up his phone and returned to his research. 

Across the train car, Dr. John Watson turned back to the woman he’d been flirting with, grinning from ear to ear. 

~

The moor was truly beautiful. The countryside stretched for what seemed like forever as the three friends drove through Dartmoor. Sherlock pulled the car over near a large pile of rocks so that everyone could stretch their legs and get oriented with the countryside. 

Sherlock scaled the tallest conglomeration of stone so that he could survey the land better. Y/N couldn’t help but think how heroic he appeared, standing dramatically atop the world with his long black coat. 

The wind picked up, blowing her hair away from her face. Y/N closed her eyes and tilted her head up, enjoying the feeling of cold air and bright sun on her face. Sherlock watched her from his perch. He smiled. 

John shook open the map of Devon.  

“There’s Baskerville.” He pointed to the cluster of concrete buildings ahead of them on the right. “Er, that’s Grimpen Village.” He pointed behind them. “So that must be,” He looked ahead and to the left. “Yes, Dewer’s Hollow.” 

Sherlock pointed to a nearby field. “What’s that?” 

John grabbed his binoculars to get a closer look. “A minefield? Technically, Baskerville’s an army base, so they’ve always been keen to keep people out.”

“Clearly.” Said Sherlock. 

 

The rented jeep pulled into Grimpen Village as a “Monster Walk” tour group was disbanding.

“Right, three tours a day. Tell your friends, tell anyone.” Said the guide, standing near a poster warning “Beware of the hound!”

“Don’t be strangers.” The young man said to his group. “And remember, stay away from the moor at night, if you value your lives!” 

The tourists laughed as the three companions entered The Cross Keys Inn. Sherlock wandered about while Y/N and John reserved their rooms. One of the owners, a friendly bearded Scotsman handed them two sets of keys across the bar. 

“Sorry we couldn’t get you all separate rooms. All this hound business has us pretty full up. I’ve got you a double and a single, though.”

“It’s fine.” John assured him. “There you go.” He handed the man some cash. 

“Oh, ta. I’ll just get your change.” The Scotsman turned around to open the register. 

“Ta.” Y/N replied with a smile. 

John stared at the pile of receipts on the counter with a perplexed expression. He tore one away and handed the piece of paper to Y/N under the table as the bartender returned with their change. 

“Oh, there you go.” He said, unaware of the missing bill for a large order of raw meat. 

_ That’s odd, _ Y/N thought.  _ They’re every proud of being a vegetarian restaurant.  _

“I couldn’t help noticing on the map of the moor, a skull and crossbones?” John inquired. 

“Oh, that.”

“Pirates?” John joked. 

“Ah, no.” The man answered. “The Great Grimpen Minefield they call it.”

“Oh, right.” 

“It’s not what you think.” the Scotsman explained. “It’s the Baskerville testing site. It’s been going for eighty odd years. I’m not sure anyone really knows what’s there any more.” 

“Explosives?” Y/N guessed. 

“Oh, not just explosives.” The man warned. “Break into that place and if you’re lucky, you just get blown up, so they say. In case you’re planning a nice wee stroll.” 

“Ta, I’ll remember.” John said. 

“Aye. No, it buggers up tourism a bit, so thank God for the demon hound.” The man laughed. “Did you see the show? The, er, documentary?”

“Yeah, we just saw it very recently, actually.” Y/N said. 

“God bless Henry Knight and his monster from hell.” 

“Ever seen it? The hound?” John asked. 

“Me? Oh no, no.” The Scotsman pointed outside to the monster walk guide. “Fletcher has. He runs the walks for the tourists, you know. He’s seen it.”

Sherlock was stood by the door, listening in to their conversation. Y/N sent him a look and together they went outside to speak with Fletcher the monster hunter. 

The young man sat at one of the outdoor tables, finishing up a phone call. Sherlock grabbed an abandoned pint off of a nearby table 

“Mind if we join you?” Sherlock asked once Fletcher had hung up. 

Fletcher shrugged and gestured to the seats next to him. 

“It’s not true, is it, you haven’t actually seen this hound thing?” Sherlock scoffed. 

“Are you from the papers?” Fletcher asked, suspicious.

“No, no.” Y/N assured him. “We’re just curious. Have you seen it?”

“Maybe.” Fletcher replied. 

“Got any proof?” Sherlock asked. 

“Why would I tell you if I did?” Fletcher made to leave. “Excuse me.” 

Y/N sighed. “I suppose you win the bet, then, Sherlock.” She said dejectedly. 

“Bet?” Fletcher asked, suddenly interested. “What bet?” 

“Oh, he bet me fifty quid that you could not prove you’d seen the hound.” Y/N lied. Sherlock nodded, smiling at her. 

Fletcher grinned. “Well, you’re going to lose your money, mate.” 

“Yeah?” Sherlock challenged. 

“Yeah. I’ve seen it.” Fletcher declared. “Only about a month ago. Up at the Hollow. It was foggy, mind, couldn’t make much out.” 

“I see, no witnesses, I suppose.” Sherlock said doubtfully. 

“No, but-” 

“Never are.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“No, wait.” Fletcher pulled something up on his phone. “There.” It was blurry photo of something brown. 

“Is that it? It’s not exactly proof, is it?” Sherlock laughed. “Sorry, Y/N, I win.” 

“Wait, wait, that’s not all. People don’t like going up there, you know.” Fletcher protested. “To the Hollow. Gives them a bad sort of feeling.” 

“Oooh is it haunted?” Sherlock mocked. “Is that supposed to convince me?”

“Nah, don’t be stupid! Nothing like that. But I reckon there is something out there. Something from Baskerville escaped.”

“Like a clone?” Y/N asked, skeptically. 

“Maybe.” Fletcher said. “God knows what they’ve been spraying on us all these years, or putting in the water. I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could spit.” 

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Sherlock challenged. 

Fletcher lowered his voice. “I had a mate once who worked for the MOD. One weekend we were meant to go fishing, but he never showed up. Well, not ‘till late. When he did, he was white as a sheet. I can see him now. ‘I’ve seen things today Fletcher,’ he said, ‘that I never want to see again. Terrible things.’ He’d been sent to some secret army place. Porton Down, maybe. Maybe Baskerville, or somewhere else. In the labs there, the really secret labs, he said he’d seen terrible things. ‘Rats as big as dogs,’ he said. And dogs, dogs the size of horses.” 

Fletcher pulled a mold out of his bag. It was of an enormous pawprint.

Y/N sat back, surprised. 

“I believe we said fifty?” 

Sherlock pulled out his wallet and handed her the money absently. His brain was clearly working at top speed. The detective stood without another word and strode towards the rented jeep. Y/N smiled at Fletcher before jumping up and following Sherlock. 

“What level security clearance are you, Y/N?” Sherlock asked her suddenly. 

“Two.” She answered. “I don’t think that’s high enough to get us into Baskerville.” 

“Not a problem.” Sherlock declared, getting into the driver’s seat and starting the car. 

The sun sunk lower in the sky as they made their way to the military lab. Clouds rolled across the sky as wind blew along the moor. Y/N grew nervous as they approached the gate. Barbed wire sat atop high chain-link fences and soldiers with guns and dogs stood guarding the place. A middle-aged soldier held a hand out to stop them as the car approached. 

“Pass please.” He asked. 

Sherlock calmly handed him an ID. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” The soldier walked away to check it. 

“You got ID for Baskerville? How?” John asked quietly. 

“It’s not specific to this place. It’s my brother’s.” Sherlock replied. “Access all areas. I, erm,” He cleared his throat. “Acquired it ages ago. Just in case.” 

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Of course you did.” She whispered. “We’re going to get caught.” 

“No we won’t!” Sherlock insisted. “Well, not just yet.” 

“Caught in five minutes.” John agreed with Y/N. “‘Hi, we just thought we’d have a wander around your top secret weapons base.’ ‘Really? Great. Come on in, kettle’s just boiled.’ That’s if we don’t get shot.”  

The gate began to open. “Clear!” 

“Thanks very much.” The soldier said, handing the pass back to Sherlock. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock intoned with a smile. 

“Mycroft’s name literally opens doors.” John said, impressed. 

“He is the British Government.” Y/N joked. 

“I reckon we’ve got about twenty minutes before they realize something is wrong.” Sherlock estimated as they pulled up in front of the main lab block. A captain led them past a few blockades and scientists and soldiers walking around. A young officer jumped out of a vehicle and addressed them. 

“What is it? Are we in trouble?” He asked, 

Sherlock held his chin high. “Are we in trouble, sir.” He corrected. 

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” 

“You were expecting us?” Sherlock asked, sounding important. 

“Your ID showed up straight away, Mr. Holmes. Corporal Lyons, security.” The soldier introduced himself. “Is there something wrong, sir?”

“I hope not, Corporal, I hope not.” Sherlock said. 

“It’s just we don’t get inspected her. You see, sir.” Lyons went on. “It just doesn’t happen.”

“Ever heard of a spot check?” John asked, getting out his ID. “Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers” 

“Sir.” Corporal Lyons saluted him. 

“Agent Y/N Hudson, MI6.” Y/N introduced, flashing her own badge. 

The corporal bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Major Barrymore won’t be pleased, sir. He’ll want to see you all.” 

“Oh, we won’t have time for that.” Y/N said. “We’ll be needing a full tour.” 

Corporal Lyons hesitated. 

“Right away, carry on. That’s an order Corporal.” John commanded. 

“Yes, sir.” Lyons complied, opening the security door. 

They walked briskly down a white walled corridor, brightly lit by fluorescents and smelling like antiseptic. 

“Nice touch.” Sherlock muttered to John. 

“Haven’t pulled rank in ages.” The doctor admitted. 

“Was it fun?” Y/N asked. 

“Oh, yeah.”

They turned a corner and got into an elevator, again accessed using Mycroft’s ID. Corporal Lyons pressed the button for sublevel one, and Y/N noted that there were 6 sublevels and a floor labelled ‘B’.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a sterile lab. People in white coats were working at desks and at lab stations. Lyons led them past a row of large metal cages. A monkey flew at the bars, screeching. Y/N stumbled, letting out a small gasp. Sherlock placed a hand on her back to steady her as they kept walking. 

“How many animals do you keep down here?” Sherlock asked, returning his hands to his pockets. 

“Lots, sir.” Lyons replied. 

“Any ever escape?” Sherlock inquired. 

“They’d have to know how to use that lift, sir. We’re not breeding them that clever.” 

“Unless they have help.” Sherlock suggested. 

A tall, older man in a hazmat suit approached them. “Ah, and you are?” He asked. 

“It’s alright, Dr. Frankland,” Lyons assured. “I’m just showing them around.” 

“Ah, new faces, how nice.” Frankland smiled. “Careful you don’t get stuck here, though. I only came to fix a tap.” He walked by, heading for the elevator. 

“How far down does that lift go?” John wondered. 

“Quite a way, sir.” Lyons answered. 

“Mhm. And what’s down there?” John followed up.

“Well, we have to keep the bins somewhere, sir.” Lyons said cheekily. “This way please, everyone.” 

“What exactly do you do here?” Y/N asked. 

“I thought you’d know, ma’am, this being an inspection.” Lyons evaded. 

“I’m not an expert on this, Corporal, am I?” She replied. 

“Everything from stem cell research to trying to cure the common cold, ma’am.” Lyons elaborated. 

“Chiefly weaponry?” She asked. 

“Of one sort or another, yes.” The soldier confirmed. 

“Biological? Chemical?” John chimed in. 

“One war ends, another begins, sir.” Lyons half-answered. “New enemies to fight. We have to be prepared.” 

The group went through another security door and down a corridor before coming to a different lab. Two doctors stood around an exam table where a monkey sat, screeching and waving its arms. 

“Okay, let’s try Harlow Three next time.” The woman said, walking to a different station with her clipboard. 

“Dr. Stapleton-” Lyons addressed the woman. 

“Stapleton?” Sherlock said to himself. 

“Yes. Who’s this?” Stapleton asked. 

“Priority ultra, ma’am, orders from on high. An inspection.” Lyons explained. 

“Really?” She asked, surprised. 

“We are to be accorded every courtesy Dr. Stapleton. What’s your role at Baskerville?” Sherlock asked. 

She laughed. 

“Accorded every courtesy.” John repeated. “Isn’t that the idea?” 

“I’m not free to say. Official secrets.” Stapleton said.

“Oh, you most certainly are free, and I suggest you remain that way.” Sherlock threatened. 

“I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies.” She admitted. “I like to mix things up. Genes mostly. Now and again, actual fingers.”

“Stapleton!” Sherlock smiled to himself, writing something on a piece of notebook paper. “I knew I knew your name.” 

“I doubt it.” She argued. 

“People say there’s no such thing as coincidence.” Sherlock went on. “What dull lives they must lead.” 

He held up the paper. It read: “BLUEBELL.”

Y/N watched the doctor’s expression carefully. 

Stapleton looked confusedly up at the detective. “Have you been talking to my daughter?” 

“Why did Bluebell have to die, Dr. Stapleton?” Sherlock loomed over her, speaking faster. “Disappeared from a locked hutch, which was always suggestive.” 

“The rabbit?” John asked, not quite following. 

“Clearly an inside job.” Sherlock stated. 

“Oh, you reckon?” Stapleton challenged. 

“Why?” Sherlock explained. “Because it glowed in the dark.” 

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” Y/N could see Stapleton was lying. “Who are you?” 

Sherlock consulted his watch. “Well, I think we’ve seen enough for now. Thank you so much. Corporal?” 

“That’s it?” Lyons looked at the three of them, flummoxed. 

“That’s it.” Sherlock agreed, already on his way out. “It’s this way, isn’t it?” 

“Just a minute!” Stapleton called after them. 

John and Y/N rushed to catch up with Sherlock. 

“Did we just break into a military base to investigate a rabbit?” John whispered harshly. 

Sherlock swiped his ID at the security door. They made it back to the first lab when a text from Mycroft came in. 

_ What are you doing?  _

Sherlock laughed. “Twenty-three minutes. Mycroft’s getting slow.” 

They reached the elevator and swiped the key cards. Dr. Frankland was inside already. 

“Hello, again.” He said cheerily. 

Something felt off about his smile, though. Y/N was growing worried that he might know who they were. Her own phone dinged with a text from Mycroft. 

_ What is going on, Y/N? I know you’re with them. _

The doors opened on the main floor. A middle aged balding soldier with a beard blocked their escape route. 

“Oh, erm, Major-” Lyons stammered. 

“This is bloody outrageous!” Major Barrymore growled. “Why wasn’t I told?” 

“Major Barrymore, is it?” John asked, stepping forward for a handshake. “Yes, well, good. Very good. We’re very impressed. Aren’t we, Mr. Holmes? Agent Hudson?” 

“Yes.” Y/N agreed. 

“Deeply, hugely.” Sherlock added, slipping by the angry officer and making for the final security door. 

“The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this kind of bureaucratic nonsense!” Barrymore argued. 

“I’m so sorry Major-” Sherlock attempted. 

“Inspections!” 

“New policy, Can’t remain unmonitored forever, goodness knows what you’d get up to.” Sherlock lied. He whispered to his companions. “Keep walking.” 

Lyons came barreling round the corner, slamming his hand on a button on the wall. “Sir!”

The lights turned off, save for a flashing white one as alarms began to blare. The final security door locked automatically. 

“ID unauthorized, sir. I’ve just had the call.” Lyons explained. 

“Is that right?” Barrymore turned to face the interlopers. “Who are you?” 

“There has obviously been some sort of mistake here.” Y/N said, sounding more confident than she felt. 

Barrymore looked at Sherlock’s ID. “Clearly not Mycroft Holmes.” 

“Computer error, Major.” John declared. “It’ll all have to go in the report.” 

“What the hell is going on?” Barrymore barked. 

Frankland stepped in. “It’s alright, Major. I know exactly who these people are.” 

Y/N froze, her heart beating rapidly in anticipation of being arrested, fired, or killed. 

“You do?” 

“Yeah, I’m getting a little slow on faces, but Mr. Holmes here isn’t someone who I would have expected to show up in this place.”

Sherlock made one final effort to to save them. “Oh, well-” 

“Good to see you again, Mycroft.” Frankland said, reaching out to shake Sherlock’s hand. “I had the honor of meeting Mr. Holmes at the WHO conference in..Brussels, was it?” 

“Vienna.” Sherlock lied. 

“Vienna, that’s it.” Frankland agreed. “This is Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Major. There’s obviously been a mistake.” 

Barrymore sent Lyons to unlock the door. 

“On your head be it, Dr. Frankland.” He warned.

“I’ll show them out, Corporal.” Frankland insisted. 

Dr. Frankland followed them as the three friends made a beeline for the jeep. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock said to the scientist. 

“This is about Henry KNight, isn’t it? I thought so.” Frankland said. “I knew he wanted help, but I didn’t realize he was going to contact Sherlock Holmes!”

Y/N and John shared a look. 

“Oh don’t worry, I know who you really are. I’m never off your website. Thought you’d be wearing the hat, though.” Frankland informed them with a smile. 

“That wasn’t my hat.” Sherlock protested. 

“I hardly recognize him without the hat.” Frankland admitted. 

“It wasn’t my hat.” Sherlock repeated, making Y/N chuckle a bit. 

“I love the blog, too, Dr. Watson.” Frankland addressed the other doctor. 

“Oh, cheers.” John thanked him. 

“The pink thing, and the one about the aluminium crutch. You were brilliant in that one as well, Miss Hudson.” 

“You’re very kind, Dr. Frankland.” Y/N said. 

“You know Henry Knight?” Sherlock asked. 

“Well, I knew his dad better.” Frankland told them. “He had all sorts of mad theories about this place. Still, he was a good friend.” Frankland looked back to see Barrymore watching them. “Listen, I can’t really talk now.” He pulled a piece paper out of his pocket. “Here’s my cell number. If I can help with Henry, give me a call.” 

“I never did ask, Dr. Frankland, what exactly is that you do here?” Sherlock queried. 

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, I would love to tell you, but then of course, I’d have to kill you.” Frankland laughed. 

Sherlock was unamused. “That would be tremendously ambitious of you. Tell me about Mr. Stapleton.” 

“Never speak ill of a colleague.” 

“But you’d speak well of one, which you’re clearly omitting to do.” Sherlock pried. 

“I do seem to be, don’t I?” Frankland shrugged. 

“I’ll be in touch.” Sherlock said, turning to go. 

Frankland left them and returned to the lab. 

“So?” John asked as they closed the remaining distance to the car. 

“So?” Sherlock feigned obliviousness. 

“What was all that about the rabbit?” John wondered. 

Sherlock flipped up the collar on his coat and pulled it tighter around him in a familiar gestures. 

John scoffed. “Oh, please, can we not do this this time?” 

“Do what?” Sherlock asked. 

“You being all mysterious with your...cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.” John accused. 

Y/N threw her head back and hooted with laughter. 

Sherlock faltered. “I don’t do that.” 

“You absolutely do.” Y/N teased, still laughing.  

Sherlock frowned, getting into the car and shutting the door with a little more force than necessary. 

 

The Jeep bounced over holes and cracks in the road as Y/N, Sherlock, and John drove away from Baskerville. The clouds were beginning to part, allowing the late afternoon rays of sun through. 

“So, the email from Kirsty.” John broke the silence of the car. “The missing luminous rabbit.” 

“Kirsty Stapleton, whose mother specializes in genetic manipulation.” Sherlock added. 

“She made her daughter’s rabbit glow in the dark?” John said, doubtful. 

“Genetic splicing is fairly simple.” Y/N joined in. “She probably used a fluorescent gene.” 

“So?” John asked.

“So we know that Dr. Stapleton performs secret genetic experiments on animals.” Sherlock explained. “The question is, has she been working on something deadlier than a rabbit?”

“To be fair, that is quite a wide field.” John pointed out. 

Henry Knight’s house was huge. The original structure was an old three story stone building. A more modern, glass covered addition connected to the first and second floors. The three friends entered through a disheveled greenhouse at the rear. 

“Hi,” Henry greeted, opening the door. “Come in, come in.” 

The interior was painted in light blues and whites and decorated with expensive, contemporary furniture. 

John looked around. “This is, er ― are you, um, rich?” 

“Yeah.” Henry confirmed as though John had asked him if his eyes were brown. 

“Right.” 

Henry led them into the kitchen. He made tea for Y/N and a cup of coffee for Sherlock while they sat at the kitchen counter. 

“There’s a couple of words. It’s what I keep seeing.” Henry told them. “Liberty.” 

“Liberty?” John repeated, getting out his notebook. 

“Liberty. And…” Henry paused. “In. It’s just that.”  

Henry turned around to put away the milk and sugar. 

“Mean anything to you?” John asked. 

“Liberty in death, isn’t that the expression? The only true freedom.” Sherlock supposed. 

“‘Give me liberty or give me death.’” Y/N thought aloud. “‘Liberty’ was always a big thing in the States ever since the revolution.” 

Henry came back and nervously tapped the table with his hands, looking between Y/N and Sherlock. “What now then?” 

“Sherlock’s...got a plan?” John looked to the tall detective for direction. 

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed. 

“Right.” Henry smiled. 

“We take you back out onto the moor…” 

“Okay.” 

“And see if anything attacks you.” Sherlock said simply. 

“What?” John whipped his head around in surprise. 

“Sherlock…” Y/N cautioned. 

“At night?” Henry paled. “You want me to go out there at night?” 

“That’s your plan?” John was incredulous. “Brilliant!” 

“Have any better ideas?” Sherlock challenged calmly. 

“That’s not a plan!” 

“If there is a monster out there, John, there’s only one thing to do. Find out where it lives.” Sherlock insisted. 

“Did you bring your gun with you John?” Y/N asked. 

“It’s in the luggage.” He said. 

“Might want to take it with us tonight.” She suggested. 

~

Light pinks and purples stained the sky as their little group made it across the moor. They passed the pile of rocks Sherlock had climbed earlier and descended into the woods, towards the hollow. 

Henry led the way with Y/N and Sherlock behind. John split off at some point just past the treeline. Despite a growing sense of unease, Y/N kept walking. The flashlights swept across fallen leaves, tree trunks, and the occasional battered warning sign for Baskerville. 

“Met a friend of yours.” Sherlock said. 

“What?” Henry asked. 

“Dr. Frankland.” Sherlock clarified. 

“Oh, right. Bob, yeah.” Henry said. 

“He seemed worried about you, Henry.” Y/N said. 

“Yeah, he’s a worrier, bless him.” The young man said. “He’s been very kind to me since I came back.” 

“He knew your father?” Sherlock pressed. 

“Yeah.” 

“But he works at Baskerville. Didn’t your dad have a problem with that?”

“Well, mates are mates, aren’t they? I mean, look at you and John and Y/N.” Henry dismissed. 

Sherlock grew defensive. “What about us?” 

“Well, I mean, he’s a pretty straightforward bloke,” He addressed Y/N, “You’re very friendly, and you..” he turned back to Sherlock, “Well, they agreed never to talk about work, Uncle Bob and my dad.” Henry stopped. 

The three of them stood on the edge of a steep decline. 

“Dewer’s Hollow.” Henry announced. 

In the basin of earth below them, mist swirled above leaves on the ground. The beam of Y/N’s flashlight didn’t penetrate very far into the darkness, and she was hesitant to explore any further. 

Sherlock and Henry half walked half slid down into the hollow. Y/N slowly picked her way around the edge, stalling by trying to find a less steep path. 

A howl echoed through the woods. 

Y/N froze in fear. She quickly flicked off her torch and dashed behind the huge trunk of an old oak tree. She pressed her back against it, holding her hand over her mouth and nose to muffle her quick, terrified breaths. 

Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness and she peeked around the tree, searching for movement in the woods. Y/N heard snarling and the sound of twigs snapping under the step of something large, but she didn’t see it. 

A crow screeched. It sounded like whatever was out there ran away. The growling stopped. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Henry was breathing heavily. “Did you see it?” Y/N didn’t hear a reply from Sherlock, only their footsteps as they left the hollow.

“Y/N!” Sherlock yelled.“Y/N!” 

She turned the flashlight back on, moving out from behind the tree. “Are you okay?” 

He walked to her and grabbed her shoulders, squinting through the darkness to to see that she was alright. Satisfied, he grabbed her wrist and dragged her along the path away from the hollow. Henry followed, babbling about how they’d seen the hound. 

John ran up to them barely a minute later. “Did you hear that?” 

“We saw it. We saw it!” Henry said excitedly. 

“No, I didn’t see anything.” Sherlock disputed, sounding like he was trying to convince himself. 

“What?” Henry sounded distressed. “What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t see anything.” Sherlock repeated through clenched teeth. 

He walked faster, still holding on to Y/N’s wrist like a lifeline. She turned her head and gave John a reassuring smile. 

“You take Henry home and help him calm down?” Y/N suggested. “We’ll see you back at the inn.”

The doctor nodded, steering Henry in the direction of his house while Sherlock and Y/N continued their trek to the Cross Keys. 

The inn was warm and inviting as patrons laughed at the bar or had dinner in the restaurant.  Y/N had gently rotated her forearm and moved her wrist so that she was holding Sherlock’s hand. She led him up the stairs and to her room, shutting out the noise of the downstairs. 

Y/N released his hand, moving farther into the room. She took off her coat and laid it on the back of a chair. Sherlock hadn’t moved since walking into the room. He stared at a fixed point on the wall with glazed eyes. His hands shook now that he wasn’t holding her. 

“Sherlock.” She said quietly and calmly, standing a few feet away from him.

His gaze snapped to her and she could see that his beautiful blue eyes were muted by unshed tears. 

“Did you see it?” He asked, his voice hoarse.

“I heard something in the woods. Growling, branches breaking. I didn’t see anything, though Sherlock.” She answered. 

“I…” He moved his mouth, as if trying to form the right words. “I saw it.” 

Y/N studied him, choosing her actions carefully. “Why don’t you take off your coat. I’ll buy us some drinks. It’ll calm us down.” 

“You don’t believe me.” He said, getting defensive. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“No, but you were thinking it.” He snapped. “You can’t lie to me, Y/N.” 

“Sherlock, I wasn’t lying.” 

“I saw it!” He began pacing in front of the door. “A gigantic hound.” 

“It would have had to pass where I was standing, Sherlock.” Y/N tried to make him understand. “I didn’t see it.” 

“There’s a lot you don’t see, Y/N!” Sherlock raised his voice. “You don’t see, but I do!” 

“I’m not saying there wasn’t an animal out there. We both heard something. We just didn’t see it.”

He tugged at his dark curls. “ _ You _ didn’t see.” He repeated. “You didn’t see how much I - well, John and Mrs. Hudson worry when you go undercover and you didn’t see how much Mycroft takes advantage of your intellect and you don’t see that Henry Knight wants to have sex with you and-” 

“Sherlock!” She exclaimed. 

“You don’t see, Y/N you don’t! That makes you useless to me. You’re useless!” He spat. 

Sherlock stopped pacing when she didn’t respond. 

Y/N stood there, staring at him in shock. He saw the tears well up in her eyes. He saw her hands clenched into fists as she fought the lump in her throat. 

“Get out.” She said, voice dangerously quiet. 

He wanted to take it back, to apologize, to ask her to  _ please help me. _ He didn’t know how to say it, how to form the words. 

Instead, he did what she asked. He left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oH sHiT ShErLOck 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think! <3


	16. The Hounds of Baskerville Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, how are you? I feel like I don't ask that enough. I really think I should spend more time on YOU, my lovely readers-just kidding! Conflict resolution awaits so please speed on over this little time waster called an author's note. ;D

On his second day in Dartmoor, Sherlock holmes rose with the sun. He’d spent the night hours in a fretful sleep. Upon waking, he felt right again instead of the paranoid and terrified version of himself he’d been after visiting the hollow. 

Sherlock dressed quickly and left before John began to stir in the other bed. He walked across the moor, thinking about the case. 

The only explanation he could come up with for his abnormal behavior was drugs. 

He and Henry suffered the symptoms, but Y/N and John had walked away unscathed. All four of them had only shared one meal together: tea and coffee at Henry’s house. Y/N and John both took milk, but no sugar while Sherlock and Henry had both. 

Sherlock reached the large rock outcropping he’d climbed the day before. He clambered up once more, enjoying the wind on his face. 

Sherlock resolved to return to Henry Knight’s house this morning and steal some sugar to test. He’d have to return to Baskerville as well-

As Sherlock turned to climb back down, he caught sight of someone else taking a early morning walk along the moor. Someone with a red coat. 

_ You’re useless!  _

His words from the night before echoed in Sherlock’s mind, pushing him faster across the dewey grass. Y/N saw him coming, and he felt a sick feeling in his stomach as he watched her turn around. 

He drove her away, and he hated it. 

“Y/N, wait.” He called.

She ignored him. 

Sherlock started running, closing the distance between them in less than a minute. He matched her pace, walking next to her. 

“Y/N-” He tried again. 

“Leave me alone, Sherlock. I’m busy being useless.” She said.

Sherlock jogged ahead before turning around and stepping into her path. Y/N, propelled by hurt, crashed right into his chest. 

“What the hell, Sherlock?” She said, stepping back and crossing her arms. 

She wouldn’t look directly at him, but he could see the puffiness around her eyes. His sick feeling got worse. 

“You’ve been crying.” He said, sounding almost emotional. 

“What do you want?” She asked, finally meeting his gaze. 

He took a step forward. “I experienced something I’d never felt before last night. It was more than fear. I felt doubt. I shouldn’t have said those things to you, Y/N. Something was messing with my mind.” 

“You shouldn’t have said it, you’re right.” She agreed, but her tone was still angry. 

“I-” He began. 

She stormed past him, but he grabbed her hand. Y/N looked at him, angry and defiant. 

Y/N stopped breathing for a moment when she saw his face. His eyes bore into her own. She saw genuine regret and emotion she wasn’t sure had ever been in his expression before.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

They stared at each other. 

“I’m sorry, too.” She whispered, beginning to cry again. “I’m sorry I’m not what you need me to be.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “That’s completely ridiculous! Y/N― You’re not― I was just―” he sighed, mentally cursing the English language. 

He took her other hand. “You are not useless to me, Y/N. I said that because I was paranoid and I-”

_ I wish you didn’t leave for cases. I said that because I need you and when you’re not there everything is harder.  _

“You are anything but useless.” Sherlock said. “Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” Y/N whispered. 

He smiled. “Good. Now, we have a case to solve.” 

~

Y/N went along with Sherlock on a very short and confusing visit to Henry Knight’s house. Sherlock was clearly following a lead, but he wasn’t telling her what exactly he was after. She hoped he had a plan. She hoped this wasn’t the beginning of him hiding things from her. They passed the Grimpen Village cemetery and caught sight of John. 

Y/N and her dear friend had comisserated over angry text messages the night before about Sherlock’s episode. 

She said something about grabbing a sweater from her room and let Sherlock go off to make his second apology. 

Y/N ducked into the entryway of the Cross Keys and met a familiar face by the bar. 

“Greg?” She exclaimed in disbelief. “What are you doing here?” 

“I’m on holiday.” He said. 

“I know you’re lying, but I’m so happy to see you I don’t care!” She said, giving him a big hug. “How are you? How are things at the yard? How’s Molly?” 

“Oh, well cases are certainly slower without you.” He chuckled. “I’m alright. Molly misses you something awful though. I’m to tell you that if she doesn’t see you soon, she’ll kill you.” 

Y/N laughed. “I’ll call her when we’re done with this case and I’m back in London.” 

“What the hell are you doing here?” 

Sherlock and John were back. 

“Oh, nice to see you too.” Lestrade replied. “I’m on holiday, would you believe?”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Sherlock said shortly. 

“Hello, John.” Lestrade greeted the doctor. 

“Greg.” John gave his friend a smile. 

“I heard you were in the area. What are you up to?” Lestrade asked. “Are you after this Hound of Hell, like on the telly?” 

“I’m waiting for an explanation, Inspector,” Sherlock demanded. “Why are you here?” 

“I’ve told you, I’m on holiday.” 

“You’re brown as a nut.” Sherlock pointed out. “You’re clearly just back from your holidays.” 

“I fancied another one.” Lestrade continued lying. 

Y/N laughed. “Spycroft sent you, didn’t he?” 

“Now, look…” 

“Of course he did!” Sherlock lamented. “One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to spy on me, incognito.”

“Alright, fine.” Lestrade gave in. “First off, I’m not your handler. She is.” Lestrade said smugly, pointing to Y/N. “And yeah, he did ask me to come and check up on things.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Is that why you’re calling yourself ‘Greg?’”  
“That’s his name.” John said. 

“Is it?” Sherlock asked, confused. 

“Yes.” Lestrade was no longer amused. “If you’d ever bothered to find out.” 

“Actually,” John cut in. “You could be just the man we want.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, I’ve not been idle, Sherlock. I think I might have found something. Here.” John pulled the restaurant receipt out of his pocket. “I didn’t know if it was relevant. Starting to look like it might be. That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant.” 

“Excellent.” Sherlock said. 

“A nice, scary inspector from Scotland Yard, who can put in a few calls, might come in handy.” John finished. 

Y/N tapped the little bell on the counter, summoning one of the owners. With a flash of his badge, and some meaningless but official sounding police gargin, Lestrade was at down with the bartender and the chef in no time. Sherlock and John stood against the wall while Y/N and Lestrade looked through the Inn’s ledger. 

“These records go back nearly two months.” Noticed Lestrade. “Is that when you got the idea? After the TV show went out?” 

The owners were both clearly anxious, and the chef spoke hastily. “It’s me. It was me.” His gaze flicked from his partner to the window to the floor. “I’m sorry Gary. I had a bacon sandwich at Cal’s wedding and one thing led to another.”

“A for effort on that one.” Y/N said sarcastically. 

“Look, we were just trying to give things a bit of a boost, you know?” Gary spoke up. “A great big dog run wild up on the moor, it was heaven-sent. It was like us having our own Loch Ness monster.”

“And where do you keep it?” Lestrade asked. 

“There’s an old mine shaft. It’s not too far.” Gary admitted. “He was alright there.” 

“Was?” Sherlock interjected.

“We couldn’t control the bloody thing.” Gary sighed. “It was vicious. And then about a month ago Billy took him to the vet and, you know…”

“He’s dead?” John asked. 

“Put down.” Gary corrected. 

“Yeah,” Billy agreed. “No choice. So it’s over.” 

Y/N couldn’t quite believe him.

“It was just a joke, you know.” Gary said. 

“Yeah, hilarious.” Lestrade got up. “You’ve nearly driven a man out of his mind.”

Y/N closed the ledger and they left the back room, heading back out through the bar and into the village. 

“So, you believe them about having the dog destroyed?” Lestrade asked. 

“No reason not to.” Sherlock asserted. 

“I suppose so.” Y/N said. 

“Well hopefully there’s no harm done.” Said the DCI. “I’m not quite sure what I’d charge them with, anyway. I’ll have a word with the local force. Alright, that’s that then. Catch you later.” He began to walk away, smiling. “I’m enjoying this. It’s nice to get London out of your lungs.”

“So that was their dog that people saw out on the moor?” John wondered. 

“Apparently so.” Y/N said.

“But that wasn’t what you saw.” John addressed Sherlock. “That wasn’t just an ordinary dog.” 

“No.” Sherlock agreed. “It was immense. It had burning red eyes, and it was glowing, its whole body was glowing.” 

The detective grew serious, looking at both of his companions. He shook himself before walking forward, flipping up his coat collar. 

“I’ve got a theory, but I need to get back to Baskerville to test it.” Sherlock announced. 

“How? We can’t use Mycroft’s ID again.” Y/N mentioned.

“Might not have to.” Sherlock pulled out his phone to call someone. “Hello brother dear. How are you?” 

~

Sherlock split off from his friends right away to visit Major Barrymore while John and Y/N began the search for the hound. They began with the first lab they’s seen the day before. The space was oddly empty. Every scientist they came across seemed to be leaving for lunch at the same time. 

Y/N looked over the lab benches while John checked the adjoining lab space. She followed after a moment, a little unnerved by the sign on the door reading “keep out unless you want a cold.”

There wasn’t much to see in the second room aside from steam and electrical wires. Y/N heard the beep of John swiping his keycard and returning to Stapleton’s lab. She was about to follow when an alarm began to blare loudly. The lights flashed on for a moment with blinding brightness and Y/N lost her bearings. 

She stumbled towards the door and tried her own ID. 

_ Access Denied.  _

“Oh come on.” She whispered, trying again and receiving the same result. 

_ Access Denied.  _

The blinding lights shut off suddenly along with the alarm, plunging her into darkness and silence. She blinked, trying to adjust to the low lighting. 

“John?” She called, seeing his form vaguely through the door’s glass. 

“John!” She yelled, banging on the door to get his attention. 

He crept back towards her, trying to open the door from the other side. 

_ Access Denied.  _

The terror in his eyes made Y/N’s heart begin to pound with panic. She was stuck. 

Her phone rang. 

“John?” 

“It’s here. It’s in here with me.” He breathed. 

“Oh my god.” She tried to think. “Um, uh, get to one of the cages. I’ll call Sherlock.” 

John hung up, creeping away from the door and back into the lab. With shaking hands, she pressed her speed dial for Sherlock. 

It rang and rang with no answer. 

“Dammit!” She cursed. 

She surveyed what she could see of the lab from the door. Every shadow looked like it could be the hound. Y/N pressed her hands against the door at the sound of muffled growling. It was there. The hound was in the lab. 

“Oh my god.” She breathed. 

Y/N blinked hard, and nearly screamed when she saw something dark moving towards the cages. 

“NO!” She screamed, banging on the door again.

The lights turned back on. The door beeped and unlocked. 

Y/N tumbled through, shocked to see Sherlock standing by John instead of a huge bloodthirsty creature. She rushed over to them. 

“Sherlock, it was here, I swear it, Sherlock, it must, it must―” John stammered, pacing. “Did-did you see it? You must have!”

“I saw it John, only for an instant, but it was there.” Y/N said, her words rushing out in an excited stream.

“It’s alright, it’s okay now.” Sherlock said, trying to calm them down. 

“No, it’s not!” John screamed. “It’s not okay! I saw it! I was wrong!” 

“Hm, well, let’s not jump to conclusions.” Sherlock doubted. 

“What do you mean?” Y/N asked. “We saw it!” 

“What did you see?” Sherlock pressed. 

“I told you, I saw the hound.” John panted. 

“Huge, red eyes?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes.” John confirmed. 

“Glowing?” 

“Yes!” Y/N agreed. 

“No.” Sherlock dismissed. 

“What?!” John and Y/N both exclaimed. 

“I made up the bit about glowing.” Sherlock revealed. “You saw what you expected to see because I told you. You have been drugged. We have all been drugged.”

“Drugged?” John breathed. 

“Can you walk?” Sherlock asked them. 

“Of course I can walk.” Johns said obstinately. 

“I’m fine.” Y/N assured. 

“Come on,” Sherlock headed out of the lab. “It’s time to lay this ghost.” 

Dr. Stapleton seemed hardly surprised when the three of them arrived at her lab. “Oh, back again? What’s on your mind this time?” She asked. 

“Murder, Dr. Stapleton.” Sherlock said dramatically. “Refined, cold-blooded murder.”

He flicked off the lights in the lab, revealing the green translucent glow of the rabbit she was working with. 

“Will you tell little Kirsty what happened to Bluebell or shall I?” Sherlock asked, turning the lights back on. 

“Okay,” Stapleton relented. “What do you want?” 

Sherlock stepped forward. “Can I borrow your microscope?” 

The detective revealed a package of white granular material that looked like sugar to Y/N and began his work. John sat down heavily on a lab stool, and Y/N leaned against a lab bench, their previous panic leaving them both drained. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Stapleton asked, observing them. “You look very peaky.”

“No, I’m alright.” John insisted. 

Y/N nodded her agreement, unaware of a concerned glance from Sherlock. The slight tremor of her hands hadn’t gone unnoticed by him. 

“It was the GFP gene from a jellyfish, in case you’re interested.” Stapleton said. 

“What?” John asked. 

“In the rabbits.” Y/N clarified. “Seemed to work pretty well.” 

“Yeah, it did.” 

“Why?” John wondered. 

“Why not?” Was Stapleton’s response. “We don’t ask questions like that here. It isn’t done. It was a mix up anyway. My daughter ended up with one of the lab specimens so poor Bluebell had to go.”

“Your compassion is overwhelming.” John said sarcastically. 

“I know.” She admitted. “I hate myself sometimes.”

“I’m a scientist too: forensics” Y/N mentioned. “What else do you have going on here?” 

Stapleton sighed. “Listen, if you can imagine it, someone is probably doing it somewhere. Of course they are.”

John let out a humorless laugh. “Cloning?” 

“Yes, of course. Dolly the Sheep, remember?” 

“Human cloning?” 

“Why not?” Stapleton repeated. 

John cleared his throat. “What about animals? Not sheep? Big animals.” 

“Size isn’t a problem. Not at all. The only limits are ethics and the law and both of those things can be very flexible.” Stapleton told them. “But not here, not at Baskerville.” 

Sherlock stood suddenly, hurling his testing dish against the wall.

“It’s not there!” He shouted in frustration. “Nothing there! It doesn’t make any sense!”

“What were you expecting to find?” Stapleton asked. 

“A drug, of course.” Sherlock growled, pacing between them and the lab table. “It has to be a drug. A hallucinogenic or a deliriant of some kind. There’s no trace of anything in the sugar.” 

John realized what was going on. “Sugar?” 

“Yes, sugar.” Sherlock said impatiently. “A simple process of elimination. I saw the hound, saw it as my imaginations expected me to see it. A genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn’t believe my eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. Henry Knight, he saw it too. Now, since we got to Grimpen Village, we’ve eaten and drunk the same things except for the fact that you don’t take sugar in your coffee. I took it from Henry’s kitchen.” Sherlock hit the lab bench with his hand. “It’s perfectly alright.” 

“Hang on a minute, I didn’t have the sugar, but I saw it too.” Y/N cut in. 

“How did it get into our systems?” Sherlock sat down, rubbing his temples. “How? There has to be something. Something...something...something buried deep.”  He turned suddenly towards them. “Get out.” 

“What?” Stapleton asked, confused. 

“Get out, I need to got to my mind palace.” 

John rolled his eyes, but began ushering Stapleton out anyway. Y/N started to follow, but Sherlock’s voice stopped her. 

“Not you, Y/N.” He said impatiently. “Stay.” 

She returned, pulling a stool over to sit in front of him. He closed his eyes and she followed suit. They began searching for the missing pieces of the case. 

_ Liberty. In.  _

_ India, Indium, Indiana.  _

_ Indiana! _

“Sherlock.” Y/N opened her eyes. “Liberty, Indiana. It’s a place, not an expression.” 

Sherlock grinned at her. “H.O.U.ND. Project H.O.U.N.D.” He stood up and grabbed his coat. “Come on, I need to have a look at Major Barrymore’s computer.” 

~

The sun set and practically everyone was gone from Baskerville when Dr. Stapleton led Sherlock, Y/N, and John into the command center of the compound. 

“John?” Sherlock nodded to the door.

“Yeah, I’m on it.” John agreed, stationing himself at the window to keep watch. 

“Project H.O.U.N.D. I must have read about it, stored it away.” Sherlock said. “An experiment in a CIA facility in Liberty, Indiana.”

Dr. Stapleton entered her ID and password, followed by “H O U N D.”

_ No Access. CIA Classified.  _

“That’s as far as my access goes, I’m afraid.” Stapleton said apologetically. 

“Well, there must be an override. A password?” John said. 

“I imagine so, but that’d be Major Barrymore’s.” She agreed. 

Y/N turned round and entered the soldier’s office, scanning for inspiration. She sat in the chair, trying to place herself in his position when he thought of the password. 

“What’s he like?” Y/N asked Stapleton. 

“He’s a bloody martinet, a throw-back, the sort they’d have sent to Suez.” Dr. Stapleton described. 

Y/N spun slowly around in the chair. “Alright, so he’s traditional. Not one to use his children’s names or birthdays. He’s proud of his work…” Y/N looked around, finding anything at eye-level. 

She honed in on his bookshelf. Bound copies of  _ Jane’s Defence Weekly, Hannibal _ ,  _ Wellington _ ,  _ Rommel _ , even all four volumes of Churchill’s  _ History of the English-Speaking Peoples.  _

“He’s a Churchill fan.” She remarked, noting a bust of the former PM as well as the books. 

She found copy of  _ The Downing Street Years  _ as well _ ,  _ and several other separate biographies of Margaret Thatcher. There was a framed photograph on Barrymore’s desk of himself as a teenager and an older man in military dress. It looked to be about the mid-80s, father and son. 

Y/N beckoned John over. “His dad has a Distinguished Service Order.”

“At that age, I’d guess Falklands veteran.” John asserted. 

Y/N nodded, moving back over to the computer. “Right, so then Thatcher is more likely.” 

“Is that the password?” Stapleton asked. 

“No,” Sherlock joined in. “With a man like that, first names will do.” 

Y/N typed in “Margare-” before hitting the character limit. She tried “Maggie” instead. 

_ Override Accepted. Loading… _

Reports and photos flooded the screen, filled with words like “fear and stimulus,” “extreme suggestibility,” “brain chemistry,” “conditioned terror,” and “aerosol dispersal.”

“Hound.” Stapleton said. 

_ Severe frontal lobe damage.  _

_ Paranoia.  _

_ Blood-brain.  _

_ Dangerous acceleration.  _

_ Gross cranial trauma.  _

_ Multiple homicide.  _

“Jesus.” John breathed. 

“Project HOUND. A new deliriant drug which rendered its users incredibly suggestible. They wanted to use it as an anti-personnel weapon, to totally disorientate the enemy using fear and stimulus. But they shut it down and hid it away in 1986.” Sherlock read. 

“Because of what it did to the subjects they tested it on.” Stapleton said. 

Y/N swallowed. “And what they did to others.”

“Prolonged exposure drove them insane. Made them almost uncontrollably aggressive.” Sherlock said. 

“So, someone’s been doing it again?” John asked. “Carrying on the experiments?”

“Attempting to refine it, perhaps. For the last twenty years.” Sherlock confirmed in disbelief. 

“Who?” Stapleton asked. 

“Those names mean anything to you?” John asked her. 

“No, not a thing.” She admitted. 

Sherlock sighed. “Five principal scientists. Twenty years ago.” He began zooming in on the photo of the team. “Maybe our friend is somewhere in the back of the picture? Someone who was old enough to be there at the time of the experiment in 1986?” His eyes widened in realization. “Maybe someone who says ‘cell phone’ because of time spent in America?” 

“Bob Frankland.” Y/N said.

“But Bob doesn’t work on...he’s a virologist. This is chemical warfare.” Stapleton pointed out. 

“That’s where he started, though. He’s never lost the certainty, the obsession that that drug really could work.” The detective shrugged. “Nice of him to give us his number. Let’s arrange a little meeting.”

Sherlock began composing a text when John’s phone rang. “Hello?” 

Y/N could hear a woman sobbing on the other line. She and Sherlock shared a confused look. 

“Who’s this?” John asked. He turned around and whispered to his friends. “It’s Louise Mortimer. Louise, what’s wrong?...What?...Where are you?...Right, stay there. We’ll get someone to you, okay?” 

John hung up. 

“Henry?” Sherlock asked. 

“He’s attacked her.” John replied. 

“Gone?”

“Mhm.” 

“There’s only one place he’ll go, back to where it all started.” He dialed Lestrade. “Lestrade, get to the hollow, Dewer’s Hollow. And bring a gun!”

~

Henry Knight staggered down the slope into Dewer’s Hollow. He was so tired. He was so scared. 

“I’m sorry.” He said brokenly. “I’m so sorry, Dad.” 

Slowly, Henry raised the barrel of his handgun, placing it in his mouth. 

“No, Henry, no, no!” Came the deep voice of Sherlock Holmes, scrambling down into the hollow to stop him.

“Get back!” Henry freaked out. “Get away from me!” 

“Easy, Henry. Easy. Just relax.” John said. 

“I know what I am, I know what I tried to do.” Henry sobbed, pointing the gun at them. 

“It’s going to be okay, Henry.” Y/N called. “Just put the gun down. It’s okay.” 

“No, no! I know what I am!” Henry screamed. 

“Yes, I’m sure you do, Henry. It’s all been explained to you, hasn’t it?” Sherlock said. “Explained very carefully.” 

“What?” 

“Someone needed to keep you quiet, to keep you as a child, to reassert the dream you both clung on to, because you had started to remember.” Sherlock stepped slowly towards the young man. “Remember now, Henry, you’ve got to remember what happened here when you were a little boy.”

“I thought it had got my dad.” Henry panted. “The hound. I thought...Oh, Jesus!” He began placing the gun in his mouth again. “I don’t know anymore! I don’t!”

“No, Henry! Henry!” 

“Henry, remember.” Sherlock insisted. “‘Liberty, In.’ Two words. Two words a frightened little boy saw here twenty years ago. You’d started to piece things together. Remember what really happened here that night. It wasn’t an animal, was it, Henry? Not a monster. A man.”

Henry raised his head, finally remembering. 

“You couldn’t cope.” Sherlock continued. “You were just a child. So you rationalized it into something very different. Then you started to remember so you had to be stopped. Driven out of our mind so that no one would believe a word that you said.” 

John stepped forward slowly and took the gun away from Henry. 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade called, coming down into the hollow. 

“But we saw it, the hound, last night.” Henry said feebly. “We did, we s…”

“No, but there was a dog, Henry, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but nothing more than an ordinary dog.” Sherlock promised. “We both saw it, saw it as out drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus, that’s how it works. But there never was any monster.” 

A howl sounded very close to them. Everyone aimed their flashlights at the edge of the hollow where an enormous dog was indeed on the prowl, snarling and growling. 

“Sherlock?” John said, looking for someone to tell he him he wasn’t hallucinating. 

“No, no, no, no, NO!” Henry began screaming.

“Henry, Henry, stop.” Y/N tried to keep him calm while keeping an eye on the dog that was getting steadily closer. 

“Sherlock? Are you seeing this?” John flashed his torch in Lestrade’s face. “He is not drugged, Sherlock, so what’s that?” 

“Oh no, no.” Henry wailed. 

“What is it?” John bellowed. 

“Alright, so it’s still here.” Sherlock shouted, trying to keep back his own fear. “But it’s just a dog, Henry. It’s nothing more than an ordinary dog.”

“My god!” Lestrade exclaimed. 

The dog began leaping down the slope towards them. Sherlock grabbed Y/N by the arm and pushed her behind him. In her peripheral vision, Y/N saw a figure emerging from the fog behind them. 

Frankland. 

She ran towards him and ripped off his gas mask. Instead if the old scientist, she was faced with her father. Frank Hudson smiled, snarling at her. 

“No.” She said, trying to shake away the vision. “You’re not here. No.” 

Sherlock pulled her away from Frankland, noticing that the man was holding a hand over his mouth and nose. 

“The fog!” He shouted. 

“What?” John asked, still staring down the gigantic dog. 

“It’s the fog! The drug! It’s in the fog!” He yelled, gripping Frankland by the lapels. “Aerosol dispersant, that’s what it said in the records. Project HOUND, it’s the fog! A chemical minefield!”

Y/N pulled the collar of her coat over her nose and mouth, breathing through the fabric. The dog bounded closer, driving them backwards. 

“For God’s sake, kill it! Kill it!” Frankland shouted. 

Lestrade raised his weapon and fired two shots at the animal. It became angrier and leapt forward. John raised Henry’s gun and shot it twice more, knocking it backward. 

Everything feel silent. 

Sherlock rushed to Henry and ushered him closer to the dead beast. “Look at it, Henry. Come, on, look at it!”

It was an ordinary dog. 

“You bastard.” Henry breathed, turning on Frankland. “You bastard! Twenty years! Twenty years of my life, making no sense!” He tackled the scientist, screaming in his face. “Why didn’t you just kill me?”

Sherlock and John wrenched him away from Frankland. 

“Because dead men get listened to, he needed to do more than kill you.” Sherlock explained. “He had to discredit every word you ever said about your father. And he had the means right at his feet. A chemical minefield, pressure pads in the ground, dosing you up every time that you came back here. Murder weapon and scene of the crime, all at once.” Sherlock laughed. “Oh, this case, Henry! Thank you, it’s been brilliant.” 

“Sherlock.” John warned. 

“What?” 

“Timing.” John said, utterly done. 

“Not good?” Sherlock asked, making Y/N smile because he seemed genuinely regretful. 

“No, it’s okay.” Henry said. “It’s fine. Because this means―this means my dad was right. He’d found something out, hadn’t he?” Henry spoke to Frankland. “And that’s why you killed him, because he was right, and he’d found you right in the middle of an experiment!” 

Frankland got up. Once again, Y/N heard the dog snarling and growling as it revived from its injuries. John raised his gun and finally killed it. 

Frankland took advantage of the distraction and made a run for it, but Y/N was right on his heels. 

“Frankland!” Sherlock yelled, following them out of the hollow. 

For an older man, Frankland could run quickly. Y/N was a good five feet behind him as he weaved through the forest. 

“Come on, keep up!” John yelled. 

“It’s no use, Frankland!” Sherlock shouted, the beam of his flashlight licking Y/N’s heels. 

Frankland jumped over a wire fence, falling as his jacket caught on one of the barbs. Y/N was about to follow when a hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. Sherlock took her hand and sprinted backwards. 

“Sherlock! Wha-”

The detective pulled her to his chest and turned so that his back was towards where Frankland had gone as a huge explosion shook the ground. 

_ The minefield. _

Dirt rained down around them as Sherlock pulled away from Y/N. 

“Are you alright?” He asked quietly, his fingertips tentatively brushing her cheek.

She nodded. “Thank you.” 

~

The next morning, Y/N and John sat in the sunshine, eating breakfast outside of the Cross Keys Inn. Sherlock joined them, setting down cups of tea. 

“So, they didn’t have it put down then, the dog?” John asked. 

“Obviously.” Sherlock intoned. 

“I suppose they just couldn’t bring themselves to do it.” John said. 

“I see.” Said Sherlock. 

Y/N laughed. “No you don’t.” 

He inclined his head. “No I don’t. Sentiment?” 

“Sentiment.” John agreed. “Listen what happened to us in the lab?”

“Want some sauce with that?” Sherlock evaded, grabbing the container of ketchup packets. 

“I hadn’t been to the hollow, and Y/N hadn’t actually gone down into it either. How come we heard those things there? Fear and stimulus, you said?” 

“Must have been dosed with it elsewhere. The lab maybe? You saw those pipes, pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve.” Sherlock tried. 

Y/N scoffed. “Nice try, Mr. ‘I’m sure it’s in the sugar.’”

“Better get going, actually.” Sherlock consulted his watch. “There’s a train leaving in half an hour, so…”

“Oh, come on.” Y/N punched Sherlock in the shoulder, making him look at her fist in disdain. “It was you! You locked us in there.”

“I had to,” Sherlock excused. “It was an experiment.”

“An experiment?” John raised his voice. “I was terrified, scared to death!” 

“I thought the drug was in the sugar, so I put some in your coffee. Then I arranged everything with Barrymore. Totally scientific, laboratory conditions, literally. Y/N hadn’t had any, so she was half the proof that it wasn’t in the sugar because she’d seen it too.”

“But it wasn’t in the sugar.” John said irritably. 

“I wasn’t to know you’d already been exposed to the gas.” 

“So you got it wrong.” John said. 

“No.”

“Mhm. You were wrong. It wasn’t in the sugar, you got it wrong.” John’s tone was short. 

“A bit.” Sherlock took a sip of his coffee. “It won’t happen again.” 

Y/N giggled, and tried to cover it up poorly with a cough. Sherlock glared at her, but she was so relentless in her smile that he couldn’t help but smile back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof woof!
> 
> (that's please comment in Hound)


	17. Cookies and Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just under the wire....
> 
> Sorry for the delay everyone, but ya girl is back at school and it's been a bit of a plunge right into the deep end. Chapters may become a little less frequent in the coming days. Apologies in advance. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!

Dr. John Watson was not stupid. As much as Sherlock liked to remind his dear friend that he better served as a reflection of Sherlock’s own brilliance, John was not stupid. 

_ “You see, but you don’t observe!”  _

Ah yes, observing and seeing. That was a favorite point of superiority with Sherlock Holmes. Well, there just so happened to be some things John was able to observe while Sherlock was left in the dark. 

Y/N moved around in the small kitchen of 221B Baker Street, baking a batch of cookies. The day before, she declared she was going to actually cook something edible in the apartment, and managed to follow-through on her goal. Step one involved reorganizing the space so that Sherlock’s specimens and experiments had a whole block of cabinets and counter space to themselves while the rest of the kitchen stayed uncontaminated. John helped with this part eagerly, very happy to shoo Sherlock away for a few hours and clean. The whole experience was wonderfully cathartic. 

The smell of flour and butter wafted through to the living room where John sat at his desk, writing up a blog entry. Y/N hummed a little while she worked, and John caught flashes of her blue apron in his peripheral vision as she gathered and mixed ingredients. 

Y/N added the bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips to the dough. Sherlock’s bedroom door creaked open when the scent floated down the hallway. The tall detective stomped down the hall, the hem of his burgundy dressing gown snapping at his legs. He’d been in a sour mood ever since he had returned from a visit with one of his homeless network members to find his kitchen ruined. 

“You’ve put in too much chocolate.” Sherlock spat, looming on the opposite side of the kitchen island from Y/N. 

_ Oh lord, here he goes.  _ Thought John. 

Y/N continued stirring, glancing at Sherlock over her left shoulder with a smile. “Have I?” 

“One cup is sufficient for the proportions and consistency of the recipe. You’ve added the entire bag, which is almost double the amount required.” Sherlock continued, crossing his arms. 

“That’s true.” Y/N agreed. 

Sherlock stomped around the island to stand behind Y/N and lean over her shoulder. John noticed her falter and slow down a bit in her stirring. 

“You’re doing it wrong.” Sherlock insisted. 

“Well, I’m afraid we can’t take out any of the chocolate.” Y/N said. “I promise that all the superfluous chocolate makes the cookies more gooey and delicious in the end, but if you don’t trust me, why don’t you help with the rest of it.” She suggested.

John let out a short laugh to himself.  _ Sherlock baking cookies? Yeah, as soon as hell freezes ov- _

“Alright.” Sherlock agreed.

_ What?  _

John shifted in his seat, turning as to have a better view of the kitchen. He propped his chin on his hand, watching. 

“Okay, you stir some more and I’ll get the cookie sheets ready.” Y/N instructed, handing over the bowl and spoon. 

Sherlock took over, mimicking Y/N’s speed and motion while she placed two stainless steel sheets onto the counter. She got out four tablespoons and a spatula, surveying Sherlock’s progress over his shoulder. 

“That looks pretty good. I think we can start placing them.” She handed him two spoons. “So first you scoop a bit of the dough like this,” Y/N used her spoon to get a generous glob of cookie batter. “Then use the other spoon to shape it into more of a sphere and to scrape it off of onto the sheet. We’ll do twelve on each sheet, going three down and four across.” She slid the other sheet over to Sherlock. “You work on this, and I’ll do the other one.” 

_ He’s actually doing what she told him to do. What. Is. Going. On?  _ John’s eyes widened. 

Working together, the cookies were baking in the oven within minutes. Y/N grabbed the measuring cups and spoons and placed them into the sink for washing. With her back turned, Sherlock quickly dipped a finger into the bowl and scraped a bit of leftover dough off of the side. 

_ What is he doing?  _ John wondered. 

Y/N returned and took the bowl. As she moved to take it to the sink, Sherlock quickly wiped the dough onto her nose. 

“You have batter on your face.” He said, keeping a straight face.

_ Bloody hell.  _ John’s mouth fell open.

Y/N laughed in surprise, rubbing the sticky mixture away. Sherlock was too distracted by the motion of her hand and the color of her eyes to see her other hand grabbing a bit of spilled flour from the countertop behind her her. She flung it at him, letting the white granules settle in his curls and on his cheeks. 

“You’ve got a little something too.” She said, grinning. 

Sherlock didn’t reply. He wasn’t smiling back, but he wasn’t getting angry with her either. He merely stared. The smile slowly slipped from Y/N face as she stared back. 

John edged forward in his seat, unsure if he should look away. 

_ Am I even seeing this?  _ He wondered.  _ This might be a really weird dream. _

Y/N cleared her throat, dropping her gaze to the floor and stepping back. She snatched a towel from the handle of the oven and handed it to Sherlock. He took it without looking at it. His eyes never left her as he cleaned up the flour and she started on the dishes. 

_ What the fuck was that.  _

John coughed and quickly spun back round to face his laptop as Sherlock walked into the sitting room. Sherlock dropped into his chair and assumed his usual position, steepling his fingers underneath his chin. 

“So what’s…” John started. 

“Nothing, John.” Sherlock said quickly. 

“Hang on, you didn’t know what I was going to-” 

“I always know, John. My answer is nothing.” Sherlock said, the finality clear in his tone. 

_ Oh, there’s clearly something.  _ John thought, smiling smugly. 

~

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” 

Y/N stood in the doorway while John put on his coat. Sherlock sat in his chair by the fire, a book open in his lap. 

“Quite sure.” He said primly. 

Y/N cocked her head. “Sure as sure can be? I’ve a feeling you’ve never gone out dancing with friends before.” She teased.

Sherlock scoffed. 

“Suit yourself.” John said, eager to get out of the apartment. 

John led the way down the stairs and out into the chilly night air. They got into a taxi and headed to the club. John ran a hand through his hair, trying to remembering his last date. 

_ What was her name? Hannah? Yeah, Hannah. She was sweet, but she’d talked far too much about her ex.  _

John looked over at his companion. Y/N was watching the city go by out of her window contentedly. 

_ She hasn’t had a boyfriend since I’ve known her. Has she even gone on any dates in the past two years? _

“Y/N,” John cleared his throat. “It occurs to me that I don’t know when the last time you went out with a guy was. Want me to be your wingman or whatever tonight?” 

She laughed. 

“I think the last time I went on a date was...oh gosh I don’t know. My last boyfriend was back when I was still living in the States. I think my last date was last year. I got coffee with one of the lab techs from the Yard.” 

“Last year?” John exclaimed. “Woman, we need to find you a date! Or at least someone to, you know, entertain you tonight.” He wiggled his eyebrows. 

“John!” She shoved him, growing embarrassed. “Thank you for the offer, but I’m totally okay without working my charms at the club. I just want to have a fun night getting tipsy and breaking out my terrible dance moves with my friends, okay?” 

John raised his hands in submission. “Alright, alright. Fine.” 

The taxi pulled to a stop outside of the bar. People were going in and out, laughing and talking over the muffled sound of bass thumping from inside. John followed Y/N as her heels clicked and clacked over the pavement. 

The club was dark, illuminated by colorful spotlights and reddish lights on the walls. The center of the space was taken up by dancers, jumping, twisting, and singing along to the tracks the DJ was playing. There was a bar on the left wall, and some couches on the right. 

The night was still young, so nothing was too crowded or rowdy. 

_ Yet.  _ John thought, remembering some of the parties he’d gone to back at University.

Molly and Lestrade were already there, sitting and chatting at the bar. Molly leapt up at the sight of her friends, letting out a squeal of excitement. Y/N made a similar noise as the two women embraced. 

John raised his eyebrows at Lestrade, who chuckled. The two men clasped hands and patted each other’s backs. John took a seat next the DCI, waving the bartender over. 

“Pint, please.” He requested. “Ta.” 

Y/N and Molly came to sit beside them as well, talking a mile a minute at each other in gleeful excitement. John couldn’t hear much what with the loud music. He watched as Y/N and Molly ordered a round of shots, drank two each, and then skipped off to join the growing crowd on the dancefloor.

“I’m a bit old for dancing.” Lestrade shout-talked. 

“Me too.” John agreed. “When Y/N suggested this, I sort of forgot I’m not also twenty-seven.”

“Clearly Molly still feels twenty-seven.” Lestrade laughed. 

“Maybe I’ll feel the same after my pint.” John joked. 

_ I hope so.  _ He thought, noticing a beautiful woman holding a glass of chardonnay at the other end of the bar. 

After returning to the bar to eat some french fries, drink a bit of water, and down another round of shots, Molly and Y/N dragged Lestrade into the now thick crush of bodies on the floor. 

“You need to have some fun!” Y/N had insisted. 

John got out of dancing by sidling up to the beautiful woman and buying her a second glass of wine. 

He smiled at her. “John Watson.” He introduced.

“Lily Jones.” She smiled back. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” 

“Do you read a lot of online blogs?” 

~

John’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Lestrade had texted him. 

_ Taking Molly home. Good luck with your new friend, mate.  _

John smiled, putting the phone away and returned to flirting with Lily. He scanned the room a bit while he half-listened to her story, looking for Y/N. He didn’t see her on the couches or at the bar. 

He offered his hand to Lily. “Want to dance?” 

She looked at him through her lashes and giggled. “Yes please.” 

They joined the crowd, who were all singing along to a song John didn’t know. Lily raised her hands above her head and swivelled her hips. John still didn’t see Y/N. Lily moved closer and put her hands on John’s shoulders. 

_ Oh bloody hell. _ John cursed himself. 

“Excuse me a minute.” He shouted to Lily over the music, slipping past people, looking for his friend. 

He found her in the middle of the floor, dancing with a group of people. A guy to her left took her hand and spun her around sloppily. She laughed. 

John heard Sherlock’s voice in his head.  _ “He’s doing that wrong.”  _

The doctor pushed his way into their circle. The guy dancing with Y/N looked annoyed, but Y/N’s face lit up at the sight of him. 

“John!” She said, stumbling closer and grabbing his arm. “I need pizza. Want to go on a super epic quest to find some with me?” 

He smiled softly, having never seen her quite this drunk before. He thought about Lily. 

“Please?” Y/N pouted. “Pizza adventures are so much more fun with two people. Besides,” she lowered her voice. “I’d much rather go with you than with Jack.” She gestured to the man she’d been dancing with. “Dancefloor friends aren’t as good as real friends. And you’re my best real friend!”

John couldn’t say no to that. 

“Alright,” He agreed. “Go get your coat. Pizza awaits.” 

~

“Oh my god.” Y/N slid down in her chair and looked up at the ceiling while she chewed her bite of pizza. “This. Is. Amazing.” 

John chuckled, smiling at her across the little plastic table. Y/N sat back up, took another bite and looked at him intently. 

“Thank you, John.” She said seriously. “You could have totally gotten laid tonight but you didn’t. You came to get pizza with me.” Her eyes grew misty. 

_ So she’s an emotional drunk.  _ John observed, handing her a napkin to wipe her eyes.

“Of course I came to get pizza with you. I’ve met a million Lily-s and I’ll meet a million more. Pizza with a drunk Y/N Hudson, though. I wouldn’t miss that for a thousand pounds.” He teased.

She laughed. “Oh, I love you John. You’re like the older brother I never knew I wanted.”

“I don’t know if you’d like me as an older brother. Harry certainly complains a fair bit. Although, I did used to go into her room and mess with her stuff―” 

“John, I lied.” Y/N said suddenly.

“What?” He asked, confused. 

“I lied.” She spoke quickly, the words coming out in a torrent. “Earlier, when I said I didn’t want to flirt with anyone or get a date because I just wanted to have fun with my friends, that was a lie.” 

_ Oh my god is she about to tell me she- _

“I’m in love with Sherlock.” 

_ I KNEW IT! I BLOODY KNEW IT! THE WAY SHE LOOKS AT HIM AND WHEN IRENE ADLER WAS AROUND SHE GOT ALL SAD! OH I CALLED IT I’M THE BEST I KNEW IT! _

John’s mouth twitched as he contained his excitement. “Really?” 

“Yes!” Y/N buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know what to do!” 

“Tell him?” John suggested. 

Y/N’s head shot up, her eyes wide. “Are you crazy? He’d freak out! I’d freak out! He’d definitely reject me. I don’t think he has romantic feelings ― well, maybe with The Woman, but she was all ― you know, and I’m not ― Agh!” 

She held her head again.

“I don’t know, Sherlock always likes people for their minds more than anything. He might surprise you.” John said. 

“Maybe, but I miss having a relationship, John. I know that Sherlock ― he’s not ― that’s not something he knows and even if he had feelings for me in some alternate dimension, I wouldn’t want to put him in an uncomfortable position just because I want, ― you know, stuff, and he doesn’t.” Y/N said. 

“Like sex, you mean?”

Y/N paled. “No! Well, yes, but I meant more the little stuff like holding hands and talking and yes, physical affection, but also taking care of each other.”

_ But you’re already doing most of that, haven’t you realized? Sherlock loves you too! He just doesn’t know it yet. Maybe I shouldn’t say that to her, though. _

“Hey.” He said, trying to calm her down. “I’m glad you’re telling me all of this.” 

“But?” 

He smiled. “But you’re really drunk right now, and it’s probably making you freak out more than necessary. Why don’t we get you home so you can sleep on this, and we can talk about it more later?” 

She sighed, but nodded in agreement. 

~

It was nearly three in the morning when John crept up the stairs of 221B Baker Street. John had his foot on the steps leading to his room when a voice from the sitting room stopped him. 

“You’re back early. Didn’t find a new girlfriend?” Sherlock’s tone was curt.

“I just took Y/N home, don’t get fussy.” John answered. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. John grinned from ear to ear as he finished the trek to his bedroom. 

_ Doesn’t observe, huh? They had better name their first child after me.  _ He thought, chuckling to himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooookaaaaaaaay Y/N, oooookaaaaaaay getting some baby steps closer to telling him ooooookaaaaaay honeeeeyyyyyyy okaaaaaaaay
> 
> (i'm really tired, you guys)


	18. The Reichenbach Fall Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins....

Y/N Hudson stood straight and tall, trying not to feel out of place. On her right, Sherlock Holmes stood, looking exceedingly bored. On her left, an incredibly expensive and recently found painting sat in its gilded frame.

“‘The Falls of the Reichenbach.’” The gallery owner spoke. “Turner’s masterpiece, thankfully recovered, owing to the prodigious talents of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his colleagues.” 

A smattering of applause came from the assembled crowd of museum board members, trustees, and press. The portly gallery owner stepped closer to them, holding out a small wrapped parcel. 

“A small token of our gratitude.” He said, giving it to Sherlock. 

The detective looked at the box and immediately deduced its contents. “Diamond cufflinks. All my cuffs have buttons.” 

“He means ‘thank you.’” John recovered, smiling at the confused gallery owner. 

“Do I?” Sherlock challenged under his breath. 

“Please just say it.” Y/N whispered. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock intoned. 

Y/N was itching to leave, but complied with John’s wish to stand for one photograph. She and John smiled as the bulb flashed, and Sherlock looked enigmatic. As usual. 

 

Y/N Hudson stood straight and tall, with Sherlock on her right and a top banker and his family on her left. TV cameras and reporters stood opposite them, getting clips and quotes and photos for their articles. 

“I am now happy to be back together with my family after my terrifying ordeal.” The banker said. “And we have one person to thank for my deliverance: Sherlock Holmes.” 

The crowd applauded while the banker’s young son handed Sherlock a box wrapped in blue paper. Sherlock shook it once. 

“Tie pin.” He said. “I don’t wear ties.”

John shushed him, smiling at the reporters as bulbs flashed. 

 

Y/N Hudson leaned against the back wall of the Scotland Yard press room. Sherlock and John stood at the front along with Lestrade, announcing the capture of Peter Ricoletti to the world. 

“We all chipped in.” Lestrade handed Sherlock a hastily wrapped gift. 

Sherlock tore open one end, revealing a brown deerstalker cap. Y/N laughed along with the crowd. 

“Oh!” Sherlock said, flashing a fake smile. 

“Put the hat on!” The reporters called. “Put the hat on!” 

“Yeah, Sherlock. Put it on.” Lestrade agreed. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and reluctantly donned the cap. The crowd clapped and cameras clicked. 

~

“Boffin?” Sherlock slammed a trashy newspaper down on the coffee table.”Boffin Sherlock Holmes?” 

John, sitting on the couch, picked up the paper while Sherlock paced the sitting room. “Everybody gets one.” 

“One what?” Sherlock asked. 

“Tabloid nickname. SuBo, Nasty Nick.” John said. “Shouldn’t worry, Y/N and I’ll probably get some soon.” 

“Page five, column six, first sentence.” Sherlock said. 

John raised his eyebrows, flipping to the section mentioned. 

“Why is it always the hat photograph?” Sherlock exclaimed, grabbing the deerstalker and punching it. 

Y/N came in from the kitchen with a cup of tea. “It’s distinct. Recognizable.” She said, settling into John’s chair. 

“‘Bachelor John Watson?’” John read, exasperated and surprised. 

“What kind of hat is it, anyway?” Sherlock asked, examining the accessory. 

“Deerstalker.” Y/N said. 

“Bachelor?” John repeated. “What the hell are they implying?” 

“Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?” Sherlock flipped the hat around and then flipped it back again. 

“‘...frequently in the company of bachelor John Watson.’” John read.  

“How do you stalk a deer with a hat?” Sherlock continued. “What am I going to do, throw it?” 

“‘Confirmed bachelor John Watson.’” John kept on reading. “‘And the girl, Y/N Hudson.’”

“Is it like some sort of death Frisbee?” Sherlock wondered. 

“Hang on a minute.” Y/N looked at John. “‘the girl?’ Is that my tabloid nickname? That’s so dismissive! And sexist! I am a woman, first of all, and an investigator. They’re calling me ‘the girl?’ Ugh, I’d rather be ‘bachelorette Y/N Hudson.’ It’s more creative.” 

“It’s got flaps.” Sherlock ignored them. “Ear flaps. It’s an ear hat, Y/N.” 

“Okay, this is too much. We need to be more careful.” John declared. 

Sherlock tossed the hat to him. “What do you mean, more careful?” 

“I mean, this isn’t a deerstalker now. It’s a Sherlock Holmes hat.” John explained. “I mean that you’re not exactly a private detective any more. You’re this far from famous.” 

Sherlock flopped into his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. “It’ll pass.” 

“It better pass. The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn. And they’ll turn on you.” John warned. 

Sherlock put his hands on the edge of the arm rests, studying John. “It really bothers you.” 

“What?” 

“What people say.” Sherlock observed.

“Yes.” John agreed. 

“About me. I don’t understand. Why would it upset you?” Sherlock asked. 

“I mean, It’s not just about you.” Y/N added. “They’ve given us names now. I’ll bet that even if it’s not there yet, next time there will be some horrible column saying how fat I am or criticizing my clothes or my hair or speculating that I’m sleeping with one of you. We’re part of this too.” 

Sherlock didn’t reply, considering her words. 

“Just keep a low profile.” John said. “Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news.” 

~

It was slow morning for the MI6 investigations department. Y/N, having already wrapped up her most recent undercover case, consulted on the other smaller mysteries Mycroft assigned. 

She poured herself a cup of tea and sat at her desk, looking over a file. 

Y/N sighed. 

Her phone lit up, displaying the name ‘Spycroft’ while it buzzed on the desk. She grabbed it, tapping the accept call button. 

“Hello, Spyc-” 

“There’s a car waiting downstairs. Come now.” His tone was serious. 

This wasn’t fun, smug Mycroft. This was dangerous Mycroft, who could topple governments. Something was wrong. Very wrong. 

Y/N pocketed her phone, snatched her red coat, and ran down the hallway. She arrived, a bit winded, but within two minutes of the call. The instant the door shut behind her, the car was off and speeding. 

Mycroft sat in the seat across from her. He sat with his legs crossed and a grave expression on his face. 

“What’s happened?” Y/N asked, worried. 

“He’s back.” Mycroft said. “Jim Moriarty.” 

Y/N’s blood ran cold. “Moriarty.” 

“He’s just disabled the security systems at the Bank of England, Pentonville Prison, and the Tower of London. He was just arrested by your friend at Scotland Yard. He was found sitting on the throne, wearing the crown jewels at the Tower.” 

“A power play.” Y/N said. “He’s showing us what he can do.”

“The first display of many, I believe.” Mycroft agreed. 

“You don’t―” Y/N cleared her throat. “Need me to speak to him?” 

“No, that won’t be necessary. I need you to look at the footage from the Tower with my brother and your police inspector friend.” Mycroft instructed. 

The car rolled to a stop at Tower Hill. “Here we are.” Mycroft announced. 

“I’ll report back in an hour or so.” She said, getting out of the car. 

 

Y/N crowded around a computer monitor with John, Sherlock, and Lestrade. On the screen, the black and white image of Moriarty stuck something to the glass display case holding the crown jewels. 

“That glass is tougher than anything.” Lestrade said. 

“Not tougher than crystallised carbon.” Sherlock corrected. 

“He used a diamond.” Y/N noted. 

Lestrade switched to a camera on the opposite wall and reversed the footage to before the glass broke. Moriarty wrote a message on the case. 

_ Get Sherlock _

~

James Moriarty was put on trial for the attempted burglary of the crown jewels of England. Reporters stood all around on the front steps of the Old Bailey courthouse, speaking to cameras and repeating the same bits of information with slightly different wording. 

The car Mycroft hired for Y/N pulled around to the back of the building, letting her out in a quieter area where she wouldn’t get ambushed by questions and flashbulbs. Still, the young woman pulled up her coat collar and kept her head down as she entered the large building.

“Crown vs Moriarty, please proceed to courtroom ten.” A calm voice announced over a loudspeaker system. 

Y/N’s heels clicked on the polished stone floor. A woman came out of a side corridor as she passed. 

“Y/N Hudson?” The woman asked. 

Y/N stopped and turned around. “Yes?” 

“I’m a huge fan!” The woman gushed, coming closer. She wore her hair in two braids and there was an “I love Sherlock” pin on the lapel of her jacket. She also bore a pressure mark on her arm from the edge of a desk or laptop, the bulge of a recorder in her pocket, and an ink smudge purposely placed on her wrist. 

“And a reporter.” Y/N said, turning to go again. 

“So you are just as sharp as him.” The reporter said to herself before jogging to catch up with Y/N. “I’m Kitty Riley, by the way. Does it bother you that he gets all the credit even though you help solve the mysteries too?” 

“I don’t give interviews.” Y/N said.

“Why did you leave Scotland Yard?” 

“Like I said, I don’t give interviews.” Y/N repeated. 

“Are you in a sexual relationship with Sherlock Holmes?” Kitty persisted. “Or John Watson?” 

Y/N stopped and whirled around on Kitty Riley. She stepped closer to the other woman, standing with her hands on her hips and looking down on her to project power. 

“Once again, I will not answer your question because I do not give interviews. Please leave me alone before I ask one of the court officers to come and have a chat.” Y/N said, glaring at the reporter. 

Kitty stepped back, returning Y/N’s glare. Y/N turned her back on Kitty Riley and walked into the courtroom. Her eyes fell on John and she shuffled her way into the seat beside him while proceedings began. 

Roughly two hours into the trial, the prosecution called Sherlock to the stand. 

“A consulting criminal?” The barrister checked. 

“Yes.” Sherlock affirmed. 

“Your words. Can you expand on that answer?” The barrister asked. 

“James Moriarty is for hire.” Sherlock said. 

“A tradesman?” The barrister asked. 

“Yes.” 

“But not the sort who’d fix your heating?” She wondered. 

“No, the sort who’s plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I’m pretty sure he’s make a decent job of your boiler.” Sherlock deadpanned. 

A collective chuckle sounded from the courtroom. 

The barrister went on. “Would you describe him as-” 

“Leading.” Sherlock interrupted. 

“What?” 

“Can’t do that. You’re leading the witness.” Sherlock looked to the defense barrister. “He’ll object and the judge will uphold.” 

“Mr. Holmes.” The judge warned with a sigh. 

“Ask me how.” Sherlock corrected. “How would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Did they not teach you this?”

“Mr. Holmes, we are fine without your help.” The judge said. 

The floor creaked behind Y/N and she saw Kitty Riley entering the room and taking a seat at the back. 

“How would you describe this man, his character.” The barrister corrected herself.

“First mistake, James Moriarty isn’t a man at all.” Sherlock said, staring directly at the criminal. “He’s a spider. A spider at the center of a web. A criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every one of them dances.”

The barrister cleared her throat. “And how long-” 

“No, no don’t...don’t do that. That’s really not a good question.” Sherlock interrupted again. 

“Mr. Holmes!” The judge exclaimed. 

“How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry.” Sherlock told the prosecutor. “We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun. He tried to blow me up. If felt we had a special something.” Sherlock said sarcastically. 

Moriarty made a face at Sherlock, as though they shared some sort of private joke. It made Y/N’s skin crawl. 

“Miss Sorrel, are you seriously claiming that this man is an expert?” The judge asked in disbelief. “After knowing the accused for just five minutes?”

“Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample.” Sherlock stated the truth, though it sounded like an impossible brag. 

“Mr. Holmes, that’s a matter for the jury.” The judge scolded. 

“Oh really?” Sherlock said, his face taking on the expression he wore when deducing. 

John pressed a finger to his temple. 

“Oh dear.” Y/N said quietly to herself, knowing what was about to happen. 

“One librarian, two teachers, two high-pressure jobs, probably the City.” Sherlock began. “Foreman’s a medical secretary, trained abroad, judging by her shorthand.” 

“Mr. Holmes” The judge tried to intervene.

“Seven are married and two are having an affair with each other, it would seem.” Sherlock went on. “Oh, and they’ve just had tea and biscuits. Would you like to know who ate the wafer?” 

Y/N bent her head towards John. “You told him not to do this, right?” She whispered. 

“Oh, believe me, I tried.” John growled. 

“Mr. Holmes!” The judge barked. “You’ve been called here to answer Miss Sorrel’s questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess. Keep you answers  brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt. Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?” 

Sherlock was led out of the courtroom in handcuffs after two minutes. 

Y/N held her forehead in her palm as he left, smirking. The judge adjourned the session soon after, exhausted by Sherlock’s behavior. 

Moriarty met Y/N’s eyes as he was escorted from the courtroom. His jaw moved as he chewed a piece of gum. Y/N felt sick at the sight of his dark eyes that looked as if there was something moving behind the irises. She remembered the pool. She remembered her scars. 

Moriarty smiled. 

Y/N looked away. 

John and Y/N made their way out for the gallery and down to the holding area to pay Sherlock’s bail. 

“What did I say? I said, ‘don’t get clever.’” John reprimanded while Sherlock retrieved his possessions. 

“I can’t just turn it on and off like a tap.” Sherlock protested. 

“Yeah, but you weren’t even trying to put a filter on.” Y/N pointed out, but she was smiling. It was a little funny. 

“Well?” They began walking down the corridor. 

“Well what?” John asked. 

“You were up there for the whole thing. Up in the gallery start to finish.” Sherlock elaborated. 

“He’s not mounting a defence.” Y/N said. “His barrister just sat there, saying nothing.”

They hailed a taxi and headed home to Baker Street. 

“Bank of England, Pentonville, Tower of London.” John said as they walked in the door. “Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago, Moriarty breaks in, no one knows how or why. All we know is..” 

“He ended up in custody.” Sherlock finished, looking to Y/N and John.

“Don’t do that.” John said, sitting down in his chair while Sherlock paced and Y/N stood by the window.

“Do what?” Sherlock stopped pacing. 

“The look.” 

“The look?” Y/N and Sherlock asked at the same time. 

“You’re doing the look again.” John said. 

“Well, I can’t see it, can I?” Sherlock pointed out. 

“You’re doing a ‘we all know what’s really going on here’ face.” John explained. 

“Well, we do.” Sherlock turned to look at Y/N, who nodded her agreement.

“No, I don’t.” John disagreed. “Which is why I find the face so annoying.” 

“If Moriarty wanted the jewels, he’d have them, if he wanted those prisoners freed, they’d be out on the streets.” Sherlock spoke quickly. “The only reason he’s still in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there.” 

“He has a plan.” Y/N said. “And this is part of it.” 

~

On the second day of the trial, only Y/N and John fought through the crush of reporters to get to the courthouse. 

“Mr. Crayhill, can we have your first witness?” The judge requested. 

Moriarty’s barrister shifted nervously as he stood. “Your honor, we’re not calling any witnesses.” 

A murmur spread through the crowd. 

“I don’t follow.” The judge said. “You’ve entered a plea of ‘not guilty.’”

“Nevertheless, my client is offering no evidence.” The barrister informed the court, gesturing to were Moriarty stood. “The defence rests.”

The crowd wondered and speculated in hushed tones. Moriarty turned and fixed John and Y/N with an odd, “oh well” sort of expression. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” The judge began to close the trial. “James Moriarty stands accused of several accounts of attempted burglary. Crimes, which if he’s found guilty, will elicit a very long custodial sentence and yet his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty.”

Y/N shuffled out of the courtroom while the jury met to make their decision. She paced in front of the bench where John was sitting, heels clicking on the floor. The tick of John’s watch was deafening. 

A barrister came down the corridor. “Coming back.” He said as he passed. 

“That was six minutes.” John said. 

“I’m surprised it took them that long, to be honest.” The barrister admitted. “There’s a queue for the loo.” 

Y/N followed him and his white wig into the echoing room, stomach a ball of nerves. John squeezed her hand. 

“Have you reached a verdict on which you all agree?” A barrister asked. 

The foreman stood. “We find the defendant, James Moriarty, not guilty.” 

While the courtroom erupted into chaos, Y/N was slipping out of the door and making a beeline for the street outside. John followed, dialing Sherlock’s number and putting the call on speaker phone. 

“Not guilty!” John seethed as they marched towards the tube station. “They found him not guilty. No defence and Moriarty’s walked free.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. 

“He’ll be coming after you.” Y/N said worriedly. “We’ll try to get there as soon as possible but you need to prepare―” 

“No.” Sherlock snapped. “Stop where you are. Promise me you will not come to Baker Street until I say.” 

“Sherlock, he’ll―” Y/N protested. 

“Y/N, promise me.” He said crossly. 

“Fine.” She said through gritted teeth. “I promise. Just please, take care of yourself.” 

Sherlock hung up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens, the drama intensifies, and we're approaching far too close to where I've stopped pre-writing for comfort. ;P
> 
> As always, I hope you liked my little update! <3


	19. The Reichenbach Fall Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday everyone!  
> Last time was the beginning of "the end" and now we reach the middle....

Two eerily quiet months passed following the Moriarty acquittal. The weeks and days went by in the familiar cycle of work, friends, and sleep. Y/N left London only once for a few days working a murder case in the Shetlands. 

Y/N adjusted the lense of her microscope, changing the focus and examining a tissue sample found at the scene of a break in at the home of an MP. 

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. 

_ My office.  _

She pushed her chair away from the lab bench and left the lab to make the trek to Mycroft’s office upstairs. 

“Come in.” He called through the door when she tapped her knuckles against the ornate wood. 

She entered the large office and took a seat across from the desk in the same chair she always at in when visiting Mycroft. 

“What’s up, boss?” She asked. 

“Do you have a lead on the MP case?” He asked. 

“Yes, I believe it was a hired break-in by someone running against him.” Y/N reported. “Opposition research and all that, but the illegal kind.” 

“And you’ve documented this?” 

“It’s in the file.” Y/N confirmed. 

“Excellent, that will help put Reynolds on the right track. He’s taking over your case.” Mycroft informed her, leaning back in his chair. 

“He’s taking over my case?” Y/N asked in disbelief. “Why?” 

Mycroft slid a file across the desk to her. She opened it, looking at surveillance photos of a middle-aged man with a shaved head. 

“Have you seen that man before?” 

Y/N studied the photo for a moment. “I think I saw him outside of Speedy’s the other day.” 

“Sulejmani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly trained killer, and just moved in two doors down from 221 Baker Street.”

Mycroft handed her a second file. “Ludmila Dyachenko. Russian killer. She’d taken the flat opposite.” Two more files landed in Y/N’s hands. “Four top international assassins have relocated within spitting distance of 221B.” 

“This is part of Moriarty’s next move.” Y/N said, looking up at him, concerned. “Have you told Sherlock about this?” 

Mycroft avoided her gaze. “I have a meeting with Dr. Watson later today.” 

“Mycroft, you have to talk to your brother.” 

He ignored her. “We both know what’s coming, Y/N. Moriarty is obsessed, he’s sworn to destroy his only rival. Part of that destruction may include those whom my brother holds dear. I will protect you, Y/N, but you must look after Sherlock. Your new assignment is to work on every case that comes his way until this ordeal is finished.” 

Y/N could tell there was more going on. Mycroft wasn’t telling her everything. Then again, when had he ever been completely transparent?

“Alright.” She agreed. 

~

“Sherlock?” Y/N asked, walking into the sitting room. “Have you seen this ad in the Sun? Kitty Riley is doing a big exposé on you. I didn’t talk to her, did you? It says her source is some guy called Richard Brook.” 

Y/N handed Sherlock the paper. 

“Richard Brook…” He studied it for a moment before dropping it into the trash can. “Don’t worry about it.” He said, moving around the room and refusing to meet her gaze. 

_ Ah yes, the Holmes family ‘I’m hiding something’ look.  _ She thought. 

“You’re lying.” She said. “I should worry about it, shouldn’t I? Who is Richard Brook?” 

Sherlock stopped walking around and looked at her. “I don’t know.” 

“Then why―” The realization hit her. “Reichenbach.” 

“Exactly.” His mouth twitched in a small proud smile.

“This is Moriarty, somehow.” She guessed. 

“Yes, but I don’t know how yet.” Sherlock muttered, sitting down and steepling his fingers against his lips. 

Two sets of footsteps sounded on the stairs as Lestrade and Donovan entered 221B. 

“We’ve got a case for you.” Lestrade said. 

They gathered around John’s desk while Lestrade and Donovan put down the file and too out photos and reports. John arrived a few minutes later. 

“What’s going on?” The doctor asked. 

“Kidnapping.” Sherlock said, sitting down and typing something into his laptop. 

“Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the US.” Lestrade said. 

“He’s in Washington, isn’t he?” John wondered. 

“Not him. His children.” Lestrade corrected. 

“Max, age seven, and Claudette age nine.” Y/N said, brows furrowed. 

“They’re at St. Aldates.” Donovan cut in. “Posh boarding place down in Surrey.” 

“School broke up.” Lestrade continued. “All the other boarders went home. Just a few kids remained including those two.” 

“The kids have vanished.” Said Donovan. 

“The Ambassador’s asked for you personally.” Lestrade addressed Sherlock. 

The detective began walking out the door with Y/N following. 

“The Reichenbach hero.” Donovan called after them resentfully. 

~

St. Aldates was an old stone building that reminded Y/N of “The Dead Poets Society.” Gravel crunched under her heels as they approached a woman wrapped in a shawl and attended to by other police officers. 

“Miss. MacKenzie, House Mistress.” Lestrade explained. “Go easy.” He told Sherlock. 

The tall detective marched up to Miss. MacKenzie. “Miss MacKenzie. You’re in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night! What are you? An idiot, a drunk, or a criminal!” He shouted, pulling off her shawl. “Now quickly, tell me!” 

“All the doors and windows were properly bolted. No one, not even me, went into their room last night. You have to believe me!” She gasped. 

Sherlock’s expression softened. “I do. I just wanted you to speak quickly.” He turned and started walking into the school. “Miss. MacKenzie will have to breathe into a bag now.”

The dorm room where Claudette slept was a large, drafty room painted a cream color. There were at least twelve beds in total, all but her own left stripped and bare for the end of term. 

“Six grand a term, you’d expect them to keep the kids safe for you.” John mused. “So the other kids had all left on holidays?” 

Sherlock looked under Claudette’s bed, while Y/N inspected the armoire to the right of the bed. 

“They were the only two sleeping on this floor.” Lestrade said. “Absolutely no sign of a break-in. The intruder must have been hidden inside someplace.”

Sherlock picked up a lacrosse stick, swung it once, and then dropped it on the floor. Y/N crouched down at the foot of the bed and opened Claudette’s trunk. There was a manilla envelope inside, bearing a red wax seal. A copy of  _ Grimm’s Fairy Tales _ sat inside the parcel. 

Sherlock crouched next to Y/N. She handed him the book. He opened it, flipped through the pages, and then snapped it shut. 

“Show me where the brother slept.” He said. 

Down the hall, they entered a smaller dorm room painted blue. Max’s bed faced the door and its frosted glass window.

“The boy sleeps there very night, gazing at the only light source, outside in the corridor.” Sherlock said, and gestured to the window. “He’d recognize every shape, every outline. The silhouette of everyone who came to the door.” 

“Okay, so?” Lestrade asked, not following. 

“So he sees someone he doesn’t know outside of the door.” Y/N joined in. “Maybe he even sees the shadow of a weapon.” 

“What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?” Sherlock continued, moving to look at the nightstand by Max’s bed. “This little boy, this particular little boy, who reads all those spy books. What would he do?”

“He’d leave a sign?” John guessed. 

Sherlock began sniffing. He smelled the cricket bat lying near the bed. He crouched down and reached underneath the bedside table, pulling out an empty glass bottle of linseed oil. 

“Get Anderson.” Sherlock ordered. 

The forensic team arrived, covered the windows, and provided Sherlock with a black light. The curly-haired detective passed the light over the wall above Max’s night stand, illuminating the message “help us.”

“Not much use, doesn’t lead us to the kidnapper.” Anderson said. 

“Brilliant, Anderson.” Said Sherlock. 

“Really?”

“Yes, brilliant impression of an idiot.” Sherlock deadpanned, making Y/N smile. 

Y/N flicked on her own black light and began examining the floor. “Look, he made a trail for us.” She said. 

Glowing white footprints led from the dorm room into the corridor. 

“The boy was made to walk ahead of them.” Sherlock deduced. 

“On tiptoe?” John wondered.

“Indicates anxiety. Gun held to his head.” Sherlock explained, moving into the hallway. “The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck.” 

The footprints stopped. 

“That’s the end of it. We don’t know where they went from here.” Observed Anderson. “Tells us nothing after all.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re right, Anderson. All we know from this is his height, his shoe size, and his walking pace. Nothing of use, really.”

Sherlock chuckled, ripping a piece of canvas off of the window and getting out his lock picking kit. He knelt down and scraped pieces of the footprint off of the floor. 

The three of them climbed into a taxi that would take them to St. Barts to test the pieces of floor Sherlock collected. 

“How did he get past the CCTV? All the doors were locked.” John asked. 

“He walked in when they weren’t locked.” Said Sherlock.

“A stranger can’t just walk into a school like that.” John protested. 

“Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment.” Y/N said. “It was the end of term, parents were walking around, chauffeurs came to pick kids up, staff at the school too, I’d imagine. Who’d bat an eye at one more stranger among the crowd. He waited for them inside. He just had to find somewhere to hide until nightfall.”

~

Sherlock, Y/N, and Molly formed a rag-tag lab team, testing the chemical traces preserved in the oil on the kidnapper’s footprint. 

“The sole of the shoe is like a passport. If we’re lucky, we can see everything that he’s been up to.” Sherlock told John. 

The morning turned into afternoon and afternoon crept toward evening as they isolated the compounds in the footprint. 

  1. Chalk. 
  2. Asphalt
  3. Brick Dust. 
  4. Vegetation 



Sherlock stared at the microscope slide, wondering at what it could be. “I owe you.” He muttered, remembering his meeting with Moriarty. 

He consulted a lab printout. “Glycerol molecule. What are you?”

  1. ???



“What did you mean, ‘I owe you?’” Molly asked from her spot next to him, working on an analysis. 

Sherlock glanced up, watching Y/N write something down as she worked on the other side of the lab. 

“You said ‘I owe you.’ You were muttering it while you were working.” Molly said.

“Nothing. Mental note.” Sherlock dismissed. 

“You’re a bit like my dad. He’s dead.” Molly blinked. “Oh, sorry.” 

“Molly, please don’t feel the need to make conversation. It’s really not your area.” Sherlock condescended. 

“When he was dying, he was always cheerful. Always lovely. Except when he thought no one could see.” She continued. “I saw him once. He looked sad.” 

“Molly…” Sherlock warned. 

“You look sad.” Molly told him. “When you think she can’t see you.” 

Sherlock glanced at Y/N again at Molly’s words. She bit her lip as she concentrated on diluting a sample. His chest felt tight. 

“Are you okay?” Molly asked. “Don’t just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.”

“Sherlock?” John spoke up, looking through photos from the scene of the kidnapping. “This envelope was in her trunk. There’s another one.” John walked over to his coat. 

“What?” 

“On our doorstep. Found it today.” John pulled out a smaller manilla envelope from his coat pocket. “Yes, and look at that. Exactly the same seal.” 

Y/N got up from her work station and joined them, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective opened the envelope, revealing its contents. 

“Breadcrumbs.” Sherlock said. 

“Uh-huh.” John agreed. “It was there when I got back.” 

“A little trace of bread crumbs, hardback copy of fairy tales. Two children led into the forest by a wicked father follow a little trail of breadcrumbs.” Sherlock thought aloud.

“That’s  _ Hansel and Gretel. _ ” Said John. “What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?”

“The sort that likes to boast. The sort that thinks it’s all a game.” Sherlock said. “He sat in our flat and he said there exact words to me: ‘All fairy tales needs a good old-fashioned villain.’”

Y/N looked at the lab printout next to Sherlock. “PGPR.” She said.

Sherlock leapt up and grabbed his coat. 

“What’s that?” John asked. 

“It’s used in making chocolate.” Sherlock called over his shoulder as he left the lab. 

~

Sherlock used the five components to narrow down the children’s location to an abandoned sweet factory in Addlestone. Along with Lestrade and his police force, they stormed the abandoned warehouse, searching for the children. 

Sherlock and John came across a candle, surrounded by empty candy wrappers. Sherlock touched the wick if the candle. 

“Still warm. This was alight moments ago. They’re still here!” He shouted. 

Sherlock picked up one of the wrappers. He sniffed it, then licked it, recoiling at the taste. “Mercury.” 

“What?” Lestrade called. 

“The papers, they’re painted with mercury. Lethal.” Sherlock explained. “The more of the stuff they ate…” 

“It was killing them.” Said John. 

“It’s not enough to kill them on its own.” Sherlock said. “Taken in large enough quantities, eventually it would kill them. He didn’t need to be there for the execution.” 

Y/N crept carefully around pipes and wires, shining her flashlight into corners and breaks in the wall. 

“Murder by remote control. He could be 1,000 miles away. The hungrier they got, the more they ate, the faster they died. Neat.” Sherlock mused

“Sherlock.” John warned.

Y/N turned a corner, her flashlight beam catching the pale face of a little girl. Her brother lay unconscious next to her. She ran to them.

“I’ve found them! Over here!” She yelled for help. 

Y/N felt Max’s pulse, relieved to find that he was still alive. She reached out to Claudette slowly, not wanting to startle her. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I work with the police. We’re here to help you.” Y/N said soothingly. 

The girl relaxed a little bit as some of the fear left her. She didn’t flinch when Y/N touched her arm. Officers were joining them now, checking for injuries. Y/N made to stand up, wanting to go and talk to Lestrade, but Claudette grabbed her hand. The little girl’s eyes were pleading, and Y/N complied easily, sitting down and holding her hand while they left the factory and even sitting with her in the police car on the way back to the Yard. 

A social worker was waiting for them at the station, but still, Claudette refused to be parted from Y/N. She didn’t mind sitting in the interrogation room and holding Claudette’s hand and encouraging her gently while Lestrade asked questions about what happened in the factory. 

Then Sherlock came in. 

“Claudette, I―” 

Claudette took one look at him and began to scream in terror. 

“I know it’s been hard for you, Claudette, listen to me.” Sherlock kept trying. 

The child continued to scream, point at him and trying to get out of her seat. Lestrade took Sherlock’s arm and dragged him from the room. Y/N placed a hand on Claudette’s back, trying to calm her down. 

“Claudette, it’s okay. He’s a good man. He won’t hurt you.” 

Claudette quieted down, breathing heavily. 

“Did he look like the man who took you?” Y/N asked. 

The girl said nothing. 

Y/N sighed, but understood. She rubbed the girl’s back soothingly and didn’t ask any more questions. Lestrade returned, but Claudette’s silence persisted. 

Eventually, Claudette and Max’s father arrived directly from the airport. Y/N watched the reunion with a soft smile, accepting the ambassador’s thanks. 

She pulled on her coat and was about to leave when she overheard a snippet of Donovan and Lestrade’s conversation in the conference room. 

“The footprint, that’s all he has.” Donovan said. “A footprint.”

Y/N paused, hovering out of sight. 

“Yeah, well, you know what he’s like, CSI Baker Street. Plus, he’s got one of our own CSI’s now hasn’t he?” Lestrade mentioned. 

“Our boys couldn’t have done it.” 

“Well, that’s why we need him. He’s better.” Lestrade said. 

“That’s one explanation.” Donovan said doubtfully. 

“What are you suggesting is the other?” Y/N asked, entering the room. 

“Only he could have found the evidence.” Donovan challenged. “And then the girl screams her head off when she sees him, a man she has never seen before. Unless she had seen him before.” 

“What’s your point?” Lestrade asked, getting antsy. 

Y/N laughed in disbelief. “You think he set this up.” 

“Yeah, I do.” Donovan said, stepping closer to Y/N provokatorily. 

“How. Dare. You.” Y/N growled. “You’re just jealous that he and I are better at this than you are. He found the evidence because he’s brilliant. He is not a criminal. He’s not a psychopath. He’s just a highly functioning sociopath who does your job for you!” Y/N raised her voice. 

“Is he brilliant, or are you just saying that because you’re his bitch?” Donovan spat. 

Lestrade cut in, trying to separate them. “Sally, that’s enough-” 

Donovan ignored him, stepping forward and shoving Y/N. 

“Right, that’s it.” Y/N said. 

She stepped back with her left foot, stabilizing herself, before punching Donovan swiftly in the nose. There was crunch, and blood began running down the sergeant’s face. Y/N stepped back, wondering if she’d ever done anything quite so satisfying before in her life. 

Donovan stumbled, holding her nose and whining in pain. 

“That’s enough!” Lestrade shouted.

Lestrade handed his deputy a handkerchief before grabbing Y/N’s arm and dragging her to his office. 

“I have half a mind to arrest you for that.” He grumbled. 

“She provoked me.” Y/N said cooly. 

Lestrade didn’t reply. He simply sat her down at his desk. 

“Stay here.” He commanded before leaving. 

Reluctantly, Y/N complied, waiting in the office for an hour and a half. She paced, she checked her phone every two minutes for a call or a text from John or Sherlock. Eventually, she grew fed up. 

She scribbled a note and left it on the desk. 

_ Lestrade,  _

_ I’m sorry, but I couldn’t wait any longer. Not with Moriarty out there. You can come and arrest me for giving Donovan what she deserved later.  _

_ ― Y/N _

Y/N needed answers, and she could think of only one place to get them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuCKinG hELL yEs i hAvE BEeN waITinG foR DoNaVOn tO geT pUNCHed in tHE fAce shE's So tERRIble
> 
> Start preparing yourselves for next week now, it's going to be rough. (sorry in advance)


	20. The Reichenbach Fall Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are.

The footmen at The Diogenes Club were less than pleased to see Y/N enter their establishment. 

_ “Please madam, no women are allowed on the premises.”  _ An older footman signed in British Sign Language. 

_ “I need to see Mycroft Holmes.”  _ She replied. 

_ “Madam, I am sorry but―”  _

_ “I need to see Mycroft Holmes right now.”  _ She repeated, showing the footman her badge. 

_ “Women are not allowed―”  _

“Where is Mycroft Holmes?” John demanded out loud from behind Y/N. 

“Oh, thank god.” Y/N said, turning to her friend with a grin. 

Wishing to avoid a scene, the footman showed them into Mycroft’s private office area to wait for the elder Holmes to arrive. 

John handed her a file folder, looking grave. “You’ll want to see this.” 

She flipped through it quickly, seeing forged documents of Jim Moriarty, listed as an actor― Richard Brook.

_ So this is how he’s getting revenge. _

Also attached was the Kitty Riley piece she’d seen advertised that morning, claiming that Sherlock had paid the actor to play Moriarty in a grand, fraudulent scheme for fame and fortune. 

“This is insane.” She managed. “I came to ask about Moriarty, but you’re here to find out why Riley knows so much about Sherlock’s life.” 

“Mycroft.” John nodded. 

“Where is Sherlock?” Y/N asked, worried. 

“I don’t know.” John admitted. “Lestrade came to arrest him, then I punched the commissioner in the nose ― nice job with Donovan by the way ― and then Sherlock and I ran. Those assassins, the ones around Baker Street, are trying to get some sort of computer code Moriarty used to break in all those places. We visited Kitty Riley and found out about Moriarty’s big plan, and then Sherlock ran off somewhere.” 

Y/N sat back, absorbing the information. 

“I almost wish I hadn’t punched her now.” Y/N said. 

John chuckled. “Don’t. I think you broke her nose.” 

They heard footsteps, followed by Mycroft opening the door. 

“She has really done her homework, Miss. Riley. There’s things that only someone close to Sherlock could know.” John said as the man entered. 

“Ah.” Was Mycroft’s reply as he shut the door. 

“Have you seen your brother’s address book lately? There’s yours, mine, and Y/N’s.” John said. 

“We certainly didn’t give this stuff to Moriarty.” Y/N said, feeling betrayed. 

Mycroft sat tiredly down in the chair across from them. 

“How could you?” Y/N’s voice broke. “You,―what? Met your brother’s greatest adversary for lunch and tell him everything? How could you?” 

“I never intended...I never dreamt―”

“This, see, this,” John continued. “Is what you were trying to tell us, isn’t it? Watch his back, ‘cause I’ve made a mistake.” 

Mycroft didn’t say anything. He sat stiffly, refusing to look at Y/N. 

“How did you two meet?” John asked. 

“People like him, we...We know about them, we watch them.” Mycroft began. “But James Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, and in his pocket’s the ultimate weapon, a key code. A few lines of computer code that can unlock any door.” 

“And you abducted him, to try and find the key code?” John asked.

“Interrogated him for weeks.” Mycroft replied. 

“And?” 

“He wouldn’t play along.” Mycroft continued. “He just sat there, staring into the darkness. The only thing that made him open up...I could get him to talk. Just a little. But…” 

“You gave him Sherlock’s life story in exchange.” Y/N said, angry tears slipping down her cheeks. 

“So there’s one big lie: Sherlock’s a fraud.” John said. “But people will swallow it because the rest of it is true.” 

Y/N leaned forward, making Mycroft meet her gaze. 

“Moriarty wants to destroy Sherlock. He’s going to be the one to pull the trigger, Mycroft, but you handed him the gun.” She shook with anger. 

Y/N stood, needing to leave before she hit something. 

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft said quietly. 

John scoffed. “Ah, please.” 

“Tell him, would you?” Mycroft asked. 

Y/N left without looking back. 

~

John’s phone buzzed. 

_ Come to St. Barts. S.  _

Y/N said nothing as they exited The Diogenes Club and stepped onto the street. She swiped the tears from her face as John hailed a cab and they embarked on a wordless ride to the hospital. 

“Got your message.” John said as they walked into Molly’s lab. 

Sherlock sat on the floor, bouncing a ball off the wall and catching it before repeating the action. 

“The computer code is key to this. If we find it, we can use it, beat Moriarty at his own game.” Sherlock said. 

“What do you mean, use it?” John asked. 

“He used it to create a false identity.” Sherlock elaborated. “So we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook.” 

“And bring back Jim Moriarty again.” John caught up. 

Sherlock stood. “Somewhere in 221B, somewhere, on the day of the verdict, he left it hidden.” 

Y/N and John mirrored Sherlock’s body language, standing on on either side of him with their hands on the table, thinking. 

“What did he touch while he was there?” Y/N asked. 

“An apple and a pen knife, nothing else.” Sherlock said. 

“Did he write anything down?” John asked. 

“No.” 

John sighed, tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter. Sherlock’s eyes widened in realization.

Y/N moved away from the table and began to pace, hoping that the movement and blood flow would help her think. 

Unnoticed by his two companions, Sherlock took out his phone and sent a text. 

_ Come and play. Bart’s Hospital rooftop.  _

_ P.S. Got something of yours you might want back. _

He pocketed the phone, turning back to his friends. Y/N stopped pacing and walked over to him. 

“Walk me through what happened. Describe everything.” She requested. 

He studied her face, tracing the familiar little details that always appeared in his mind palace. The scar above her brow, that one freckle only noticed upon close inspection, the slight asymmetry of her eyes and mouth.

“I was playing the violin when he arrived. Bach.” Sherlock began. 

_ She’s been crying.  _ He thought. 

_ Is she crying over me?  _ The idea made his stomach feel funny.  _ I hope not. She’s definitely feeling strong emotions about me, or she wouldn’t have punched Donovan. Y/N would never punch someone for her own sake. It’d have to be for someone she cares about.  _

Y/N listened attentively as he walked through his meeting with Moriarty. 

_ She cares about me. She’s brilliant. She’s...entirely unlike anyone I’ve ever known. I wish I could tell her...But what would I say?  _

He finished the story, and she sat down to think it over, searching for clues. 

Sherlock kept watching her. 

He remembered looking at her as they stood by the pool in the aftermath of their first meeting with Moriarty. He remembered her holding him at Christmas when he was feeling so close to oblivion. He remembered her falling asleep on his shoulder on the train. His hand twitched at the impulse to close the distance between them and gather her up in his arms. 

_ That’s odd.  _ He thought, confused by this urge to feel her, to be near her.  _ I’ve never felt that way about anyone.  _ He realized. 

He watched as her brow furrowed and ehr hands fidgeted while she thought. She was nervous. She was scared. 

He remembered her expression at the pool, and thought of the rage he’d felt boiling up inside of him that night when Moriarty threatened her. He remembered the clenching, squeezing fear he’d experienced when he pulled her away from the minefield at Baskerville, desperate not to lose her. 

_ Why...why do I feel like this? It’s maddening. It’s distracting. _

He slapped his hand on the table in frustration. Y/N stood and come over to him, concern etched on her face. 

“How long was he in the flat?” She asked. 

“Seven minutes, forty three seconds.” He said. “It’s not the code.” 

Sherlock gave into an impulse and grabbed her hand. She looked up at him in surprise. Her pupils dilated and her breath quickened. 

He felt his own heart rate increase at the contact. 

He pretended to be inspecting the bruises forming on her knuckles from where they’d struck Donovan’s nose.

He cleared his throat. “Nice work, minimum damage to your own person, while inflicting maximum injury to her.” 

“Thank you.” Y/N breathed. “That was my goal.” 

Sherlock found himself staring at her mouth. He fought off another, much worse impulse than the first. 

“What song were you playing when he came in?” She asked.

Sherlock let go of her hand. “Sonata No. 1.”

Y/N nodded, walking away to continue pondering and puzzling.

Sherlock sat down.

_ I think I love her.  _

~

The sound of cello and violin roused Y/N from where she’d fallen asleep with her head on the lab counter. Her phone was ringing. 

“Hello?” She picked up the call, voice rough from sleep. 

“Hello, is this Y/N Hudson?” 

“Yes, this is she.” Y/N replied, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. 

“I’m a paramedic, Miss, your mother has been shot and―” 

Y/N heard nothing else of what the man on the other line said as she stood, grabbing her coat and stumbling towards the door. 

“Where are you going?” John asked. 

“That was the paramedics. Mum has been shot. I have to...I have to go.” She said, rushing out of the lab. 

As she sped down the hallway, Y/N heard John yelling at Sherlock before following her, but she couldn’t stop to care about what the detective had done this time. 

Her mother needed her. 

 

The taxi couldn’t drive fast enough. 

When it pulled up in front of 221B, John and Y/N opened their doors and had feet on the pavement before the vehicle had fully stopped. Y/N ran through the front door. 

“Mum! I’m here―” 

She was stopped by a yellow ladder in the foyer. A large, tattooed workman stood at the top, repairing the light fixture. Mrs. Hudson, alive and well, stood next to him, watching his handiwork. 

“Oh, God, Muffin! You made me jump.” Mrs. Hudson laughed. 

Y/N’s heart dropped into her shoes. 

“No. No no no no.” She muttered, turning right back around and sprinting out of the door. 

John followed, coming to the same horrifying realization. 

“Taxi!” Y/N yelled, running into the street. 

One of the black vehicles was stopped on the other side, but a man was about to get in. Y/N rushed over, flashing her badge and getting in. John followed. 

“St. Barts. As fast as you can.” 

 

The cab stopped half a block away from the hospital. They got out as John’s phone began to ring. 

“Hello?” John answered. 

He put the phone on speaker and beckoned Y/N to walk with him towards the hospital. 

“Hey, Sherlock, you okay?” John asked. 

“Turn around and walk back the way you came.” Sherlock’s tone was urgent. 

“No, I’m coming in.” 

“Just do as I ask!” Sherlock’s voice broke. “Please.” 

Y/N stopped, grabbing John’s arm to stop him too. They retraced their steps. 

“Where?” John asked, looking around for his friend. 

“There.” Sherlock said. “Now look up, I’m on the rooftop.” 

“Oh my god.” Y/N breathed, spotting him. 

He stood on the edge of the roof, eight stories above the street. The wind ruffled his coat. She couldn’t make out his face. 

“I...I...I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this.” Sherlock stammered. 

“What’s going on?” John asked. 

“Sherlock, please.” Y/N said, emotion filling her voice. 

“An apology.” Sherlock began. “It’s all true.” 

“What?” 

“Everything they said about me.” His tone was clinical and calm. “I invented Moriarty.” 

“Why are you saying this?” John asked. 

“I’m a fake.” There was a lump in Sherlock’s throat.

“Sherlock.” Y/N said, her eyes becoming blurred with tears. 

“The newspapers were right all along.” Sherlock went on. “I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson. And Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.” 

John gritted his teeth. “Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister. Right?” 

“Nobody could be that clever.” Sherlock said. “I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick. It’s just a magic trick.” 

Y/N took the phone from John. 

“No. No it’s not, Sherlock. We know it’s not. I know it’s not. You’re just as clever as me, Sherlock, probably more.” 

Sherlock laughed. “Maybe you are. Y/N I....I….I―” Sherlock sucked in a breath. 

“You are completely and perfectly unlike anyone I have ever known.” he said. 

A tear slipped down her face. 

“Sherlock, enough.” Another tear followed. 

She started walking towards the hospital again. 

“No, stay exactly where you are!” Sherlock held out his hand, hovering above the city street. “Don’t move.”  

Y/N stopped. She looked up at him. 

“Keep your eyes fixed on me.” Sherlock’s breathing quickened. “Please, will you do this for me?” 

“Do what?” John asked. 

“This phone call, it’s um...It’s my note.” Sherlock’s voice was hollow. “It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

It began to rain.

“Leave a note when?” John became panicked. 

“Sherlock―” Y/N pleaded.

“Goodbye, John.” The detective said. “Goodbye, Y/N.” 

“No, don’t.” John begged. 

They saw Sherlock hang up as they heard the line click. He threw the phone away. 

“Sherlock!” Y/N screamed. 

Sherlock lifted his arms up, as if spreading wings.

He fell. 

Y/N was frozen in place, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think. She watched as his coat fluttered and he sped towards the ground. 

Suddenly he fell out of sight, blocked by the shorter building separating her from the hospital. The loss of his form in her view jarred her into action. 

Y/N stumbled forward. Her surroundings faded, she heard nothing and saw nothing but the street ahead of her, leading her to Sherlock. She rounded the corner, catching sight of dark curls on the pavement. 

A woman knocked roughly into her shoulder. The force of the collision spun Y/N around a bit, disorienting her. She saw John on the ground where he’d been knocked over by a bike. 

Y/N grabbed his hand numbly and helped him to his feet before walking in a haze towards where Sherlock lay. 

A crowd of bystanders and nurses crowded around him. Y/N pushed through. 

“He’s my...I know him, please...Let me through.” She pleaded, hardly aware of the words coming from her mouth. 

Blood on the stone of the sidewalk. 

John’s hand on his wrist, checking for a pulse that wasn’t there. 

Y/N touched his coat, the feel of the fabric and the stillness of his body. 

Hands pulled her away and someone rolled him over to be placed on a stretcher. His eyes were open. The sight of those blue eyes, devoid of their spark, their intellect, their life, made something snap deep inside of her. 

A noise escaped her throat. It wasn’t a sob or a scream, but something primal, something visceral. 

The noise of someone losing part of herself. 

She fumbled for John, and they gripped each other tightly, crying and gasping as the body was heaved onto the stretcher and taken away. 

Sherlock was gone.

~

The headstone was simple. It was made from obsidian and said: “Sherlock Holmes.” 

Y/N Hudson stood, straight and tall, in front of the grave belonging to love of her life. Her mother stood on her left, holding onto her arm. Her best friend stood on her right, his hand on her back, silently supporting and being supported. 

“There’s all this stuff.” Mrs. Hudson said. “All the science equipment. I left it all in boxes. I don’t know what needs doing. I thought I’d take it to a school. Would you…” 

“I can’t go back to the flat again. Not at the moment.” John replied. “I’m angry.” He admitted. 

“It’s okay, John.” Mrs. Hudson soothed. “There’s nothing unusual in that. That’s the way he made everyone feel. All those marks on my table and the noise. Firing guns half past one in the morning.”

“Yeah.” 

“Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there’s food. And the fighting. Drove me up the wall with all his carryings on.” Mrs. Hudson was getting worked up. 

“Yeah, listen, I’m not actually that angry, okay?” John amended. 

“Okay.” Mrs. Hudson calmed down. “I’ll leave you two alone to...you know…” 

She walked away into the rest of the cemetery, crying into her handkerchief. Y/N squeezed John’s hand. 

“I’ll come back in a bit, you’ll want to be alone.” She said, and walked towards a large stone spire in the distance. 

The monument was to a rich family in the 1680s. The father died first, followed by his wife within the year, and then his children roughly twenty years after that. 

Y/N circled the spire, noticing small blue belladonna blossoms growing nearby. She bent down and plucked a few of the poisonous blooms from their home. 

She stood, beginning a slow walk back to Sherlock’s grave while John finished saying what he needed to say to his dear friend. She watched as John marched off after Mrs. Hudson. Y/N placed the little blue flowers at the base of the headstone. A breeze blew past, rustling the skirt of her black dress. She took a deep breath. 

“You were…” She swallowed. “You―” 

She pressed a hand to her mouth, taking another breath. 

“I love you. I should say that I loved you, but I can’t. I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” 

She paused, clenching and unclenching her fists as the words she’d so longed to say drifted into the air, falling upon the cold stone. 

“You were completely,” Her voice broke. “And perfectly unlike anyone I have ever known.” 

Tears slipped over her cheeks and dripped into the soil. 

“You changed me. You showed me things, you made me feel things, you made me think. God, you made me angry. I hated you some days, but hate is not the opposite of love. Indifference is. I could never be indifferent to you.” 

She reached out and touched the smooth stone. 

“Sherlock―” She bent her head, taking in a shaky breath. “Don’t leave me. Please, come back. I―I need you.” 

She knelt, weighed down by sobs of grief and heartbreak. Dirt stained her knees and a few tears landed on the cold black stone, running over the gold lettering of his name. She sobbed until she couldn’t sob any longer. 

She stood, dusted herself off, and walked away. She saw her mother and her best friend in the distance, walking arm in arm. She set off towards them, breathing deeply, and holding her head up. 

 

He watched her walk across the grass. His fingers itched with the impulse to go to her once more, to hold her and have her near. He loved her. 

But he couldn’t tell her. Not now. 

Not anymore. 

“Time to go.” Mycroft said from behind him. 

Sherlock turned his back on the retreating forms of those who loved him as he walked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I send you all the biggest of virtual hugs.   
> I'm sorry.


	21. Carry On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2NFIDnUBi8

Y/N put the kettle on. She stood, looking at the pot as it heated up but not really seeing it. Y/N pulled the long sleeves of her sweater down over her hands, twisting the fabric. Behind her, the apartment was a mess. Empty mugs and bowls sat around the room wherever she abandoned them. Dust began to collect in the corners and laundry piled up in her bedroom. 

Y/N didn’t care. 

The water bubbled, steam hissed, and the kettle clicked off. Y/N poured boiling water into an old yellow teapot numbly. She raked a hand through her tangled hair and tried to rub the weariness from her eyes. 

She poured tea into a cup, cradling it between her sweater covered hands. She shuffled out of the kitchen and back into her room. Y/N set the cup on the bedside table. She lay down on her side and resumed staring at the wall. 

Across the room, her phone buzzed from under a discarded shirt. 

Y/N closed her eyes. 

Cars drove by on the street below, and a train whistled in the distance. 

Y/N pulled the blanket up to her chin. 

Early afternoon sunlight drifted by in small shafts of light, despite the closed blinds. 

Eventually, she drifted into a shallow sleep. Blue eyes and mysteries and curls and long coats and moments floated by behind her eyelids. She woke up every once in awhile, sleepily reaching for him before remembering and falling into a stupor once again. 

She awoke around four in the afternoon. Y/N blinked her eyes open, rolling over onto her back. She sighed, and mustered enough energy to sit up. 

Mycroft Holmes stood at the foot of her bed. 

She gasped, jumping a little in surprise. “What the hell, Mycroft?” 

“It’s been nearly three weeks, Y/N.” Mycroft said, tapping the tip of his umbrella against the floor. “This is getting a bit ridiculous.” 

“I told you, I’m on vacation.” She spat, flopping back down and pulling up the blanket again. 

“Yes, well, it does appear to be quite the trip.”

“Leave me alone, Mycroft.” Y/N said. “Have the rest of the government solve your cases. I’m busy.” 

Mycroft didn’t respond. 

Y/N felt a surge of frustration. She sat up, glaring at him. “Look, I don’t―” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Y/N stopped, taken aback. 

“I am.” Mycroft looked at his shoes. “I caused this.” 

Y/N swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She rose and wordlessly walked over to him. Mycroft couldn’t contain his surprise and slight fear as Y/N pulled him into a hug. She pulled away and he caught one of her hands, giving it a squeeze. 

Mycroft managed an awkward attempt at a genuine smile. “It’s time to get back to work.” 

“Alright, but no more favors for your high class friends. I want cases that actually help people who need it.” 

“I have just the thing in mind.” Mycroft said. “How would you like to take down one of the biggest drug gangs in London?”

Y/N smiled. “Sounds perfect. Where do I start?”

~

Snow fluttered around Y/N. The small white flakes danced in the air, melting within seconds of settling on the street or the fabric of her red coat. Around her, people smiled at the rare phenomenon of a London snow. 

Y/N took a deep breath, standing a little straighter at the sharp alive feeling the cold air in her lungs evoked. The ache deep in her chest dulled for a moment. 

“Y/N  ‘udson?” a young homeless woman said. 

“Ah, Maisie. Hello.” Y/N replied. 

Maisie leaned against the wall of a café, bundled up in an old torn coat. Her hair was covered by an old wool cap dotted with holes. 

“Come inside with me?” Y/N inclined her head toward the café. “I’ll buy you a sandwich and something hot to drink.” 

Maisie nodded and followed the investigator into the warmth of the small restaurant. Once they were settled and Maisie was eating happily, Y/N slid a photograph across the table. 

“Maisie, I’d like you to find out whatever you can about this man for me. His name is Michael Pressman.” Y/N said. 

“Jus’ me, Ms., or d’you want me to see what the ‘ole Network can do?” Maisie asked around a bite of sandwich. 

“For now, keep it to yourself and only one or two others if you need help.” Y/N said. “Tell the rest of the Network that even though Sherlock―” Y/N cleared her throat. “I still need their help if everyone is willing to give it. I’ll make sure you’re all still being paid for your work.” 

Maisie put her hand on Y/N’s. “We were all awfully sorry to ‘ear about him going.” Maisie gave Y/N a rare smile. “And of course we’d all be ‘appy to ‘elp. Worried we’d be out of adventures without ‘im, we was.” 

Y/N chuckled, unshed tears shining in her eyes. “Well, I’ll make sure to keep things exciting.” Y/N stood to go. “I’ll be in touch.”

Maisie gave a two-finger salute. 

Back on the street, Y/N began walking. Snow landed on the tip of her nose. She stopped cold, struck with a memory. She could nearly feel his hand wiping cookie batter onto her nose, eyes bright and alive with mischief. Y/N closed her eyes, letting the tears slip down her cheeks. 

A car door slammed shut nearby. 

Y/N opened her eyes and took another deep inhale of winter air. She brushed away her tears with the back of her hand and continued on her way. 

A little while later she found herself on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. The knocker was tilted. Y/N turned the handle and walked inside. The smell of her mother’s roast chicken wafted around, making the air heavy and inviting. Y/N opened the door to 221A. 

“Yoo-hoo.” She said, imitating her mother’s signature greeting.

Mrs. Hudson turned away from the warm stove waving her hands excitedly before pulling her daughter into a hug. 

“Hello, Muffin.” She cooed. 

Mrs. Hudson ushered Y/N to a seat at the kitchen table, asking about her day and placing a steaming mug of tea in front of her. 

“You look a bit pale, so I thought you could do with a nice cuppa and some love.” 

“Thanks Mum.” Y/N said. 

Y/N felt calm and quiet, as if she were a child again for just a moment. Everything was okay because Mum would make it alright. 

Mrs. Hudson hummed and rambled as she finished up preparing the dinner. Every time Y/N rose with an offer to help, the older woman would wave her oven-mitts threateningly and insist that she was perfectly alright on her own, thank you very much. 

Chicken with rosemary and spices, Yorkshire pudding, and roasted vegetables lay on the table, making Y/N’s stomach growl. 

“Is John joining us?” Y/N asked as her mother filled their plates. 

“Oh no, I don’t think so. He’s been working terribly late these past few weeks. Comes in late into the night and leaves early as he can. I’ve hardly seen him more than I’ve seen you. I’m worried, mind you, but he also hasn’t paid the rent for last month.” 

Y/N nodded, considering an odd idea that had just struck her. 

Dinner passed away in pleasant conversation between mother and daughter, both happy to be reminded of those they love. Y/N did the washing up after Mrs. Hudson’s nightly glass of wine kicked in. Instead of grabbing her coat and leaving; however, Y/N walked up the stairs and into 221B. 

The flat was quiet and dark. As she hovered in the doorway, Y/N felt like she was entering another planet. The desk was organized, the case board was empty, and as she peeked into the kitchen, she saw no microscopes or test tubes. Y/N walked into the sitting room and turned on all the lights she could find. Next, she built a fire in the fireplace and put the kettle on in the kitchen. 

Boxes of Sherlock’s lab equipment sat on the floor where John and Mrs. Hudson hadn’t had the heart to give it away. On impulse, Y/N took each piece out of the boxes and placed them in the cabinets she’d designated for his experiments four months earlier. She put the microscope on the kitchen counter in its spot. 

The kettle whistled. 

Y/N took out the mug she always used and made tea. She took her cup and grabbed  _ Persuasion _ from the bookshelf and settled onto the couch. 

Y/N was home. 

_ “Her eye half met Captain Wentworth’s, a bow, a curtsey passed; she heard his voice; he talked to Mary, said all that was right, said something to the Miss Musgroves, enough to mark an easy footing; the room seemed full, full of persons and voices, but a few minutes  ended it.”  _

“Y/N?” John Watson said. 

Y/N closed her book quickly, getting to her feet and rushing at him in an instant. John accepted the sudden embrace, laughing a little in confusion. Y/N pulled away, gripping his arms and looking at him. 

John was unshaven and sleep-deprived. His clothes were rumpled and he smelled like coffee and antiseptic. He was a man running away from his grief and failing. 

“I think I should move in.” Y/N said. 

“Sorry, what?” John asked. 

“We’ve both been trying to deal with...this on our own and it’s not working. I want to move in to 221B with you.” Y/N continued, stepping away from him and beginning to pace excitedly. 

“Alright.” John agreed. 

“I think that―wait, you said yes? That was easier than I thought it would be.” Y/N said. 

“You were practically living here anyway.” John said. 

“This is my home.” Y/N smiled, casting a glance around the room. 

John cleared his throat. “Listen, I―I’m glad to see you.” He opened and closed his fists as he tried to suppress the emotions inside of him. 

Y/N pressed her lips together. “John, I’m so sorry.” 

“Why?” His voice was unsteady. 

“I just sort of disappeared. You needed me and I needed you but I just―” she began to cry. “I miss him. God, I miss him all the time.” 

John pulled her into another hug, starting to cry too. “I know. I know.” 

They held each other tightly, their sadness becoming more bearable as the loneliness ebbed away. 

~

Y/N walked leisurely along the paths in St. James’s Park, seemingly lost in thought as she enjoyed the frigid grey day. She sat down on a bench, overlooking the duck pond. The clouds blew across the sky, swirling and rolling around each other, but never exposing even a smidgen of blue sky beyond. 

A woman in a tattered coat sat down on the bench beside the investigator. 

“Michael Pressman. Thirty-seven years old. Mid-level lieutenant so ‘e mostly fixes up the smuggling and exchange jobs in ‘is part o’ the territory.” 

“And what is that part?” Y/N asked. 

“Vauxhall and Lambeth for the most part.” Maisie said. 

“Tell me about his routine. Where does he go? Who does he talk to?”   
“Most days ‘e stays in ’is flat. I seen ‘im order dinner from the same Chinese place a couple o’ times. That or ‘e goes into a caff a block away to eat and work on ‘is laptop. The Green Garden, it’s called. I reckon ‘e’ll be there today. Usually goes on Wednesdays and Fridays, ‘e does. I seen some of the boys in the gang go up to ‘is place, but I never seen ‘im actually talk to em. I seen girls go up too if you know what I mean.” Maisie said. 

“When he goes to the caff, does he only work on the laptop? Did you manage to see what he was doing with it?” Y/N asked. 

“I didn’t get close enough to see the screen. I don’t think ‘e does anything out of the ordinary while ‘e’s there. ‘E does step out back to smoke every time ‘e’s there. That’s not too odd, though, I s’pose.” Maise said. 

“It wouldn’t be, no.” Y/N said. “Right, well, you’ve given me more than enough information. Thank you, Maisie.” 

“‘Course, Ms.” Maisie said. 

Y/N pulled a roll of cash from her bag and held it out for Maisie. “For your trouble and a bit extra for a hostel tonight. It’s far too cold for you to sleep outside, Mais.” 

Maise smiled softly and accepted the money. “Thank you, Ms., really.” 

“Take care of yourself.” Y/N said. 

The investigator stood and walked away from the bench, out of the park, and towards the nearest tube station. She had roughly an hour before Michael Pressman would be at the Green Garden and she planned to be there when he arrived. 

Maisie’s intel proved correct. Y/N sat sipping a cup of tea and looking at a book when Mr. Pressman entered the Green Garden with a laptop bag. He ordered a coffee and some food before sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall. Pressman typed for about twenty minutes before closing the laptop, and weaving past tables to the back exit. He returned barely two minutes later, and as he passed Y/N, she caught no trace of cigarette smoke. Pressman sat again, opened the laptop, and plugged in a flash drive. He typed for a few more minutes, hit the enter key, and then unplugged the drive. Y/N watched as he subtly placed the drive in his napkin and balled it up. Pressman put the laptop back into its bag and left, throwing the napkin and the drive away as he went. 

Y/N closed her book. She downed the rest of her tea and straightened her shoulders. She stood, and dug through the trash with as much dignity as she could muster, finally retrieving the device as an employee started to yell at her. She keep her gaze down and left as quickly as she could, hoping not to be remembered when she returned on Friday. 

Y/N held onto the drive as she slipped her hands into her pockets, gripping the small piece of evidence tightly as she traveled back to her office. 

“Can you decrypt this and get me a report on its contents by Friday morning?” She said, placing the device onto one of the lab tech’s desks. 

The young woman pushed up her glasses and plugged the drive into her computer. “Yes ma’am.” 

“Excellent, thank you.” Y/N said. 

~

Y/N opened and closed cabinets. She checked under tables and on top of bookshelves. Nothing had been forgotten. 

Her phone buzzed with a text from John. 

_ Outside with the van.  _

_ Be down with the first load shortly.  _ She typed back. 

Y/N squeezed past stacks of boxes and furniture waiting to find new homes. She took a sip from her styrofoam takeaway cup of tea, pouting at the now taped up box of kitchen supplies that held her teapot. 

In the bedroom, Molly sat on the floor, pressing tape across the top of a box of clothes. 

“John’s here.” Y/N said. “Can you take that box while I grab this one?” 

The two women hefted their loads and headed down to the curb, where John started packing the rented moving vehicle. After about ten trips back and forth, Molly held the very last box in her arms as Y/N locked up for the final time. 

The door across the hall opened, revealing a tall man. Molly turned around just as he emerged, and they collided. 

“Oh!” Molly exclaimed. “Sorry!” 

The man blushed. “It’s all right.” He said bashfully. 

“Hi, Tom.” Y/N said with a grin. “This is my friend Molly, the one I told you about a while back.” 

“Oh, of course!” Tom’s eyes lit up. 

“Tom Y/N’s cute neighbor?” Molly said thoughtlessly. “Oh, I mean―” 

Y/N laughed and Tom blushed again. Y/N took the box from Molly, who was staring very intently at her new acquaintance. 

“Listen Mol, come to Baker Street whenever you’re ready.” Y/N called behind her as she walked down the stairs. 

Molly didn’t hear a word Y/N said. 

“Ready to go?” John asked, adding the last box to the car. 

“Completely and utterly ready.” Y/N said. 

“Where’s Molly?” John wondered as they got in. 

“She’s just having a major life moment right now, don’t worry about it.” 

“Right.” John said. “Yeah.” 

He started the car, and they drove barely seven minutes away to Baker Street. Y/N and John stood outside for a moment, looking at the front door. 

“You’re home.” He said. 

“I’m home.” Y/N said. “Beloved Baker Street.” 

She opened the door and stepped inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two years is such a long time ugh


	22. The Overhill Lease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Again, so sorry for last week's delay.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the grass as a fresh breath of autumn air blew through. She fiddled with the petals of a tulip. Her flower matched the rest of the bouquet laying at the base of the tombstone in front of her. 

“I’m so close, Sherlock, I can feel it.” She said. “I mean, I’ve been working on this bloody case for a year.” 

She swallowed a lump in her throat. “I would have solved it so long ago if you were still here.” 

Y/N put the bloom down with its companions. She rose up onto her knees and placed both hands on top of the cold stone. She closed her eyes and began to think. 

_ The gang leadership comes up with commands and plans for hits on other gangs, drug deals, and general orders. They code the messages onto drives and send them separately to each of the lieutenants at drop points across the city.  _

Y/N flexed her fingers. 

_ We know all the drop points, we have all the most recent drives, but the code is still unknown. The lieutenants had no cyphers on their persons or in their apartments.  _

Y/N sat back, exhaling sharply in frustration. 

“It’s a bloody enigma!” She said. 

Y/N froze. 

“An enigma.” She repeated. 

Y/N scrambled to her feet. 

“Thank you.” She said, kissing her fingertips and then touching them to the headstone. 

She pulled out her phone and dialed Mycroft. 

“Hello, Y/N.” He answered after the fourth ring. 

“How fast can you get me an enigma machine?” She asked. 

“Less than an hour.” He said. “Shall I have it delivered to your office?” 

“Yes, thank you.” She said, hanging up. 

Y/N grinned at the cloudy sky as she ran towards the tube station, her mind whirling at the excitement of a nearly finished case. 

_ Flour drop. The lounge at three in two days. Bring toolbox.  _

_ Personal earthquake for Jim Rolfe. No expenses spared.  _

_ Garden exchange. Arches tomorrow. Bring toolbox.  _

_ Toolbox dented. Central. Now.  _

Y/N circled the last message. She tacked the decoded paper onto her case board, connecting it to a nearly empty section in the center labelled “gang leadership.” Connections ran from the center to photos and profiles of the lieutenants. Mugshots of Pressman, Grigio, Taylor, and Davies grimaced at her. 

She had attached a map of London on the left side of the board. Each lieutenant’s territory was shaded a different color, but no common area of overlap or absence revealed itself. 

Y/N’s phone buzzed. 

_ Going out with Mary tonight. Don’t wait up.  _ Said John. 

O _ ooooh!  _ Y/N replied with several ridiculous and suggestive emojis. 

_ You’re terrible.  _ John said. 

_ I know. Have fun tonight.  _ She said. 

_ You too.  _ John said.  _ Don’t work too late. You need to sleep at some point  _

_ If I promise to go to bed before too long, will you finally introduce me to Mary?  _ Y/N said. 

_ You’ve met her before!  _ John said. 

_ Yes, but under the label of “receptionist.” Now she’s “girlfriend and possible new friend for Y/N.”  _ Y/N said. 

_ … _

_ … _

_ … _

_ Fine.  _ John said. 

_ Just don’t come on too strong when you meet her, yeah?  _ He added. 

_ You can’t see me, but I’m doing my happy dance.  _ Y/N said. 

_ You can’t see me, but I’m completely done with you.  _ John said. 

_ <3  _ Y/N replied.

_ How does dinner tomorrow at home sound?  _ John suggested. 

_ Perfect.  _

~

Y/N tugged at her jumper, pulling the sleeves down and twisting the hems in her fingers.  She walked into the kitchen-turned dining room. She refolded a napkin and adjusted a fork, checking that the plates hid all the worst stains on the table cloth. 

“Stop that.” John said from his chair. 

“Stop what?” Y/N asked. 

“Stop... _ that.” _ John repeated. “You’re making me nervous.”

The doorbell rang. 

Y/N grinned at John, grabbing his hand and heading down to the front door. She flung open the heavy wooden door, revealing Mary Morstan. 

Mary was beautiful in a way that none of John’s previous girlfriends were. She had a sharp intelligence in her eyes, slight creases near her eyes from smiling. Mary was closer to John’s age than Y/N’s. She wore green earrings that matched her scarf. 

Y/N smiled, immediately wrapping the other woman in a hug. 

“Welcome, Mary!” 

“You must be Y/N, then?” Mary asked, smiling despite her surprise at the sudden embrace. 

“The one and only.” John said. 

Mary’s eyes lit up when she saw him. They pecked each other on the lips, and the domesticity of it made Y/N’s heart warm. Y/N led the way up into the flat. They made small talk as everyone sat down and Y/N served dinner. 

“So you met at the clinic?” Y/N asked. 

John leant back with a groan, and ran his hand over his face. 

“Bloody hell, that was a day.” He said. 

“I sense a story.” Y/N said. 

Mary sat up straighter, giving her boyfriend a mischievous smile. John looked at her in adoration. 

“Shall I tell it, then?” Mary offered. 

Y/N took a sip of wine. “Yes, please.” 

“Right, well, it was my first day on the job. I work the desk and do some patient prep for the doctors. I was getting down the weight and height of one of John’s regulars when he comes in late, completely hungover.” Mary began. 

“Not my favorite morning.” John said. 

“Anyway he comes barrelling in, unaware of anything around him and runs straight into me. Naturally, he was holding a cup of coffee that ended up decorating my shirt. I’m shocked and covered in boiling coffee and what does he do? He apologizes, and then runs as fast as humanly possible into his office. He didn’t come out until the end of the day!” 

John sunk lower in his chair. Y/N threw a napkin at him, laughing as it caught him in the face. 

“John Hamish Watson! The nerve!” Y/N laughed. “Did he ask you out that day?” 

“‘Course not! I was too embarrassed.” John said. 

He turned to Mary and winked at her. “She was much too intimidating anyway.”

Mary slapped him on the shoulder. 

“He exaggerates.” She said. “Although,  _ I _ ended up being the one to do the asking. He was always making excuses to come up to the desk, but he never got the nerve to do anything more. So I did.” 

Y/N whooped. “Yes! You go, girl! I love that so much.” 

Mary laughed. “Thank you.” She said. 

Over the course of the evening, the three of them ate their fill of delicious homemade food, finished off two bottles of wine, and discovered a wonderful new friendship. 

Y/N told Mary about her father, and Mary told her about how her own parents had died when she was young, and she’d spent time in the States with a foster family and then in her twenties for work. They shared stories about childhood, John, and Y/N even managed to tell a particularly hilarious tale about Sherlock without feeling alone. 

Eventually John excused himself to do some washing up, while Y/N and Mary sat together on the couch. 

“This might sound weird, but I’m tipsy so I’m going to say it anyway.” Y/N said. “I feel like we’re going to be really good friends. Are we friends already? I hope so. You’re very...cool.” 

Mary giggled. “We are already friends, Y/N. To be honest, I’m relieved that you’re...you.” 

Y/N tilted her head. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, I mean, when John said he had a roommate who was twenty-eight, and then when he showed me your picture, and he talks about you a lot, well, I just wondered, you know, if―” 

“OH!” Y/N exclaimed. “Oh my god, no! Never! No, no no no! Ew ew ugh ew. No. No.” 

“Okay, ease up a bit. He’s not that bad.” Mary said. 

Y/N laughed. “No, of course. He’s fine. Just...no. That would be like being attracted to my brother.” 

“I can see that any worries I had are now completely unnecessary.” Mary said.

“Completely and utterly. Never ever ever ever―” Y/N said. 

“Never what?” John asked, rejoining them. 

Y/N and Mary looked at each other. They burst into laughter. 

“Oh Lord, you two together was a horrible idea wasn’t it?” John groaned. 

“Terrible.” Y/N giggled. 

“Awful.” Mary agreed. 

The two women looked at each other again and laughed. 

~

Mary and Y/N strolled leisurely around an outdoor market set up in a park near the MI6 headquarters. Y/N bought them both sandwiches at her favorite stall. 

Andrew, the man who worked at the stall gave Y/N a smile as he handed her her change. Y/N smiled back before walking away with Mary and continuing the story she was telling. 

“The head was in the fridge?” Mary asked. 

“Just sitting there!” Y/N laughed. “I named it Harold, but John was not pleased.” 

Mary laughed, before taking a bite of her sandwich. 

“Sherlock must have been quite the character.” Mary said. 

“Oh he was. I still forget that he’s gone sometimes.” Y/N said. 

The conversation lapsed into silence as Y/N stared off into space. She traced the brim of her cup of tea, lost in thought. 

Mary’s hand on her shoulder brought Y/N out of her reverie. 

“I’m sorry,” Mary said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

Y/N smiled at her friend. 

“Don’t worry, you didn’t upset me.” She said. “There was a time when everything upset me because everything made me think of him. Now, everything makes me think of him, and I miss him, yes, but it doesn’t upset me. I’m just grateful to have known him and loved him.” 

Mary touched a hand to her heart. “To lose a love like that...I can’t imagine.” 

“I hope you’ll never have to.” Y/N squeezed Mary’s hand. 

Mary shook her head. 

“Let’s talk about something more pleasant.” Mary said. 

“Want to know all the cute things John’s said about you?” Y/N asked. 

“Oh, yes please.” Mary said. “And then I’ll say some about him. I have plenty in mind.” 

Y/N laughed. “You two are too much.” 

“Yes, yes. Cute things. About me. Do tell.” Mary teased. 

“Well when he got home after your first date, I knew immediately that something was up. He had the dopiest grin on his face, and he was uncommonly un-sarcastic. I’ve never seen him so at peace with the world. He said―” 

Y/N’s phone rang. 

“Sorry, it’s the office…” 

“Go ahead.” Mary said. 

“Hello.” Y/N answered the call.

“Davies has just been asked to meet with the leadership. We’ve tailed him to a block of flats in Peckham.” Mycroft said.

“I’ll be there in ten.” Y/N said, hanging up. “Mary, I’m so sorry―” 

“No, it’s okay.” Mary waved her towards the door. “Go save the world.” 

Y/N smiled and gave her friend a hug before hailing a cab.

“We’ve got all the entrances and exits covered. Davies went in about ten minutes ago, and there’s been no movement since.” Mycroft said. 

Y/N sat next to him in a surveillance vehicle parked several blocks away from the flats. They watched body-cam footage from the stealth team outside the flat. 

“Who owns the flat?” Y/N asked. 

“It’s listed under the name ‘Jamie Overhill,’ but the only person in our records matching his profile died in Dhofar.” 

“Well, if they hadn’t used an alias after all the mystery so far I’d be disappointed.” Y/N said. 

Y/N opened a laptop and accessed Overhill’s information. “Let’s see if Jamie had any favored children…” 

“Ah, here’s something.” Y/N turned the laptop to show Mycroft. “Three grandchildren, all in their thirties.”  

Mycroft nodded. “George Tromperie has a criminal record. Three arrests and one completed sentence for drug possession. Is he our man?” 

“Of course not.” Y/N said. 

Mycroft smiled as Y/N inhaled whatever information was available on the other two cousins. After a few minutes, she closed the laptop. She stared straight ahead as she thought, tapping her index finger to her lips. 

She got on the comm system and spoke to the team. “Red Five, engage. There is a man inside named George Tromperie and his accomplice, Ralph Davies. I want both brought in for questioning.” 

“Affirmative, ma’am.” 

“I thought he wasn’t our man.” Mycroft said. 

“He’s not, he’s just the final front for the leadership. She owns the flat, but doesn’t live there.”

“She?” 

“Dr. Margaret Bradley, maiden name: Margaret Overhill. She doesn’t live in Peckham, she lives in Chelsea, as any proper gang leader should.” Y/N said.

Y/N opened an email account under one of her own aliases and began an email to the esteemed neuroscience professor-turned drug lord. 

~

“Dr. Bradley, thank you for agreeing to speak to me.” Y/N said, taking a seat in the older woman’s sitting room. 

“Well, I’m always happy to speak to young people interested in my profession. You said you’re getting a graduate degree in neuroscience?” Dr. Bradley asked. 

“Yes, I’m studying at Cambridge.” Y/N said, adjusting a pair of fake glasses. “I recently read your book and I was hoping you could help answer some questions relating to an independent study I’m working on. I’d like to know more about your experience with the brain and opioid addiction.”

Dr. Bradley cleared her throat, shifting slightly in her seat. “I’ll tell you all I can, but my area of expertise is more in the surgical realm.” 

“Oh, really?” Y/N feigned confusion. “I was to understand that your cousin, George, became addicted to Oxycodone and later heroin and that you were intimately acquainted with the situation.” 

Dr. Bradley blinked. “I―who are you? How―” 

“Was it his uncontrollable need to get more of the drug that gave you the idea to make a business out of it? You knew how much to give people so they stayed alive and would keep coming back. But tell me Mrs. Bradley, why did you decide to pretend George was the one in charge of the whole operation? I mean, come on, a powerful woman giving all the credit to a man who did nothing at all? It’s a bit disappointing, really.” Y/N said. 

Dr. Bradley stood up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. How dare you come into my home and make such horrible accusations. I want you out of my house!” 

“I’m afraid you’ll be leaving with me, Mrs. Bradley. You may not know what I’m talking about, but your cousin does. Who knew that thirty six hours in custody without access to heroin would make someone talk that much.” Y/N said. “You can come voluntarily and maybe get a deal, or we can do this the hard way.” 

Dr. Bradley stepped closer to Y/N. “Do you think you can threaten me? You have no idea who you’re dealing with. I’ve gotten rid of police officers twice your size for crossing me, so you, little girl, you’re nothing.” 

“Fascinating.” Y/N said. “Perhaps you’ll tell us more when we get to your cell?” 

The windows behind Dr. Bradley shattered as black-clad military operatives crashed through the glass. They let go of the ropes they’d swung off the roof on, and surrounded Mrs. Bradley with their guns drawn. 

Mycroft entered through the sitting room door. 

“It seems you’ve been caught, Dr. Bradley.” He said. “Take her away.” 

The soldiers restrained the enraged cartel leader, managing to get her through the door and out to the black SUV waiting on the street to take her to MI6. 

“That was a bit dramatic.” Y/N said. 

“Big cases deserve a little flare, don’t you think?” Mycroft mused. 

Y/N laughed. “You’re the king of flare, dear Spycroft.” 

“I shall choose to take that as a compliment.” Mycroft said. 

He offered his arm, and Y/N took it. They walked out of the sitting room together.

“Congratulations, Y/N.” Mycroft said. “I do believe you just solved the biggest case of your career thus far.” 

“You’re right.” Y/N smiled. “But it’s not over just yet.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: I LOVE MARY


	23. Many Happy Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is shit but here we go anyway...

Wednesday was market day in the park beside Y/N’s office. She got out of the small space to take a walk around the green space most days, but she’d emerge without fail on Wednesdays to get lunch from the sandwich stall. 

On this day, Y/N felt more free than she had in a year. The air smelled crisp, an omen of winter. Being in the midst of her favorite season put her in a good mood, but her happiness felt emptier without Sherlock. She grew more accustomed to the pain in her chest with each day that passed, but it would always hurt. 

Y/N took an unhurried loop around the stalls, stopping to buy two warm mugs of tea and  bunch of orange chrysanthemums for her desk. Unsurprisingly, Y/N ended up at her favorite stall. 

Andrew Clarke owned a small sandwich shop in Piccadilly, but set up a smaller stall every Wednesday to get word out about his restaurant in different parts of the city. Over the months of working at MI6, Y/N had befriended the small business owner with the kind smile. 

“Hello, Andrew.” Y/N greeted. 

She handed him the second mug of tea. “You look like you need something cozy out here in this chill.” 

Andrew laughed in surprise. “Thank you. I was just thinking how much I wanted a cuppa. Are you sure you aren’t telepathic?” 

“I’ll never tell.” She said. 

“Yes, of course.” Andrew grinned. “Must keep me interested with that air of mystery.”

“So what are you tempting me with today, Andrew?” Y/N asked. 

“The usuals, of course, but I did have something special in mind for you.” He said. “In honor of your American background and the turn towards the cold, I’d recommend the grilled cheese.” 

“Now you’re the one reading my mind! That’s perfect!” Y/N said. 

“Coming right up.” Andrew said. 

Y/N cradled her cup of tea in both hands while she looked at the chilly sunlight glinting off of the buildings nearby. 

“Your grilled cheese, m’lady.” Andrew said. 

“Thank you ever so much.” Y/N accepted the package with a grin. 

Y/N reached for her wallet, but Andrew waved her off. 

“This one’s on me.” He said. 

“Andrew…” 

“No, I insist.” Andrew said. “Getting to see you today, looking so beautiful, is payment enough.” 

He scratched the back of his head, growing sheepish at the successful delivery of that line. Y/N felt her cheeks grow hot. She looked down at her shoes. 

“Oh. Thanks, Andrew.” She said. “It’s, um, it’s always lovely to see you as well.” 

Before he could respond, Y/N gave him an awkward wave and a smile that was a bit too wide. She gathered her tea and sandwich and flowers and scurried back to the headquarters. 

Several stories up, Mycroft watched the interaction from his office window. He pushed any lingering concern about the body language between Y/N that sandwich man, but silently reminded himself to observe them again the next Wednesday. 

~

Weeks turned into months as Y/N steadily dismantled Dr. Bradley’s drug network, John and Mary fell ever deeper in love, and the weather grew colder. 

Y/N’s birthday arrived with a large group of friends and heap of cheer. 221B Baker Street was full to the brim on the eve of her 29th year. Molly and Tom stood together by the mantle; Mary sat in John’s chair and sipped her drink while John perched on the arm and made her laugh; Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson chatted amiably in the kitchen doorway. John and Mary’s friends from the clinic and some old friends from the CSI department at the yard mingled in the flat. Even Mycroft joined the festivities, sitting on the sofa and pretending to be bored. 

Y/N made smalltalk in between replenishing trays of hor d’oeuvres and making sure the music playing through speakers on the bookshelves was at the right volume. She was talking with Dana, her old desk mate from the Yard, when Andrew walked through the front door. Y/N paused mid-sentence at the sight of him. 

“Andrew?” She greeted in disbelief. 

“Happy birthday.” He said. 

Y/N smiled and gave her friend a hug. 

“This is going to sound rude, but what are you doing here?” Y/N asked. 

Y/N could have sworn she saw his cheeks grow rosier. 

“Oh, erm, Mary invited me.” Andrew explained. 

“That’s right.” Mary said, joining them. “I stopped by Andrew’s store the other day to get some lunch and asked about his plans for tonight. When he told me he had nothing on the agenda I told him he’d be more than welcome to join us.” 

“Well, great!” Y/N said. “Here, why don’t we get you a drink?” 

“Sounds excellent.” Andrew smiled. 

The kitchen was a bit crowded, and Y/N’s shoulder pressed into Andrew’s bicep as she poured him a glass of punch. Andrew took the drink with the smile he always gave Y/N when he handed her her food. 

“Thanks.” He said. 

Y/N poured a glass for herself and settled against the counter. 

“I’m glad you could make it.” She said.

“Me too.” 

Y/N laughed a little. 

“What?” Andrew wondered. 

“It’s Wednesday.” Y/N said, giggling into her punch. 

Andrew grinned. “Oh Lord, you’re right!” 

“I have never seen you on a Thursday.” Y/N said. 

“Or a Tuesday.” Andrew added. 

Y/N shook her head, still chuckling. Silence fell between them as they both took a sip of punch. Andrew put his glass down. 

“Listen, Y/N, I was wondering if you’d, erm, if you’d like to see each other on a Tuesday or a Saturday or really any day you’d like to have dinner with me.” 

Y/N froze with her cup halfway back to its place on the counter. 

“Oh.” She said. “Andrew, I―” 

Y/N paused, glancing across the flat and catching sight of John and Mary, nested happily together in a haze of love. 

“Yes, dinner sounds lovely.” She said. 

Andrew’s smile was radiant. “Really? Great! How about this weekend? Friday maybe?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Y/N said. 

She smiled back at him, but felt suddenly unable to ignore the violin sitting by the window.

~

Dr. Margaret Bradley was about to be sent to jail, although she didn’t know it yet. She’d given them all the information they needed, and now it was time to face the courts. 

For several weeks, Y/N had been sending coded messages to the lieutenants of the gang, writing in Bradley’s style. She sowed seeds of disorganization among the ranks with her communiques. She had members of her ops team obviously tail members and lieutenants alike for whole city blocks until they got antsy. Intel from the Network told Y/N that her tactics were working. Lower level members were getting word of the chaos up top. Some were even beginning to abandon the gang before things got worse. 

Sitting at her desk, she wrote out the final nail in the coffin. 

_ Empty the toolbox. Power wash. Now.  _

Y/N used her enigma machine to scramble the message before copying it onto several flash drives. She sent a quick text to Maisie, who sent a Network member over. Y/N handed off the drives to be placed at drop-off locations with bags of mysterious white powder.

Y/N got on the phone with her ops team.

“Red five, I need you to tip off the police that drug deals are going down at all four drop off locations.” 

“Copy that ma’am.” 

A few hours later, Y/N’s cell phone rang. Lestrade was on the other line. 

“Y/N,” The DCI greeted. “Something odd has happened at the yard today.” 

“Oh?” Y/N said. 

“Yeah,” He said. “We got a tip that led to four of the most untouchable gang members in the city getting arrested for cocaine possession. Once they got here, they all flipped on each other. Sleep deprived and paranoid, the whole lot of them.” 

“Hm.” Y/N said. 

“And here’s the thing,” Lestrade went on, “They were carrying bags of flour, not cocaine. If it weren’t for the evidence against each other, we would have had to let them go.” 

“You must be having a great day, Greg!” Y/N said. 

“Uh huh.” Lestrade said drily. “Remind me that I owe you several pints.” 

“Make it one dinner among friends and I’ll agree.” Y/N said. 

“You’re on.” He said. “Take care, Y/N.” 

Y/N hung up. She rolled her chair away from the desk and leaned back. Her case was complete. She righted herself and looked at a photo on her desk of Sherlock and John. She picked up, touching the curly-haired figure of her detective. 

“I wish you were here.” She whispered. 

Y/N allowed herself a moment to wallow in the feeling of missing him so much she could barely breath. 

“Come back.” She breathed, tasting the salt of tears. 

Y/N looked at his eyes, his gloved hands, his coat, and took in what she could from the image. She tiptoed close to the edge of misery she’d fallen over in the weeks after it happened, but pulled herself back before she could get lost again. 

Y/N took deep, ragged breaths and scrubbed the tears away. 

She lifted up her chin, straightened her shoulders, and got to work. 

~

_ What is wrong with me?  _ Y/N wondered. 

She sat on the sofa, her head resting on Andrew’s chest with his arms around her while they watched a movie on her laptop. Andrew chuckled occasionally at the jokes, but Y/N paid no attention to the plot unfolding on screen. She was far too busy with her own perplexing emotions and thoughts. 

Andrew was sweet, very handsome, and warm. Andrew asked her about her day and always tried to make sure she was happy and comfortable. He smiled at her and told her she was beautiful. He made the best sandwiches she’d ever had. 

But something was wrong. 

Andrew held Y/N a little tighter and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Her skin crawling, Y/N gave him a half-hearted smile and slipped out of his grasp.

“I have to use the bathroom, I’ll be right back.” She said. 

Andrew nodded, despite the disappointment behind his eyes. Y/N shut the bathroom door behind her, and leaned against it. She pinched her eyes closed and sighed. Y/N moved to the sink, supporting herself with both hands on the basin, she stared at her reflection. 

“Don’t mess this up.” She said to herself. “He’s like a rom-com character, for fuck’s sake! Don’t throw this away.” 

Y/N splashed cold water on her face. She examined her E/C eyes. 

“He’s not coming back.” She said. “He’s not.” 

Y/N set her jaw and exited the bathroom. On her way back over to the sofa, she passed to closely by the desk and accidentally knocked over a picture frame. Y/N righted the object. 

She paused. 

It was the photo she’d given Sherlock for Christmas three years ago. 

_ He’s not coming back.  _

“Y/N?” Andrew asked. “You okay, love?” 

Y/N looked away from the photo of her detective and up at Andrew. 

_ But he’s not Sherlock.  _

“Yes, I’m alright.” She said, coming over and sitting next to him on the couch. 

Y/N turned towards him and took his hand in her own.

“Andrew,” she began. “I don’t think I can be with you. Not right now.” She said. 

His face fell. 

“You are one of the kindest, most amazing men I have ever met in my entire life, and I am so grateful to know you.” She continued. “But I’m still in love with someone who can’t love me back. Until I’m fully over that, I can’t possibly hope to feel the same way you feel about me. I I am so sorry, Andrew, if you feel that I’ve led you on in these last few weeks. I really like you, but you deserve better than what I can offer. I’m sorry.” 

Andrew nodded despite the unhappiness in his face. “It’s okay. I understand.” 

He patted her hand before pulling away and standing. 

“I should go.” He said. 

Y/N didn’t try to stop him. She walked him downstairs and handed him his coat. They hugged. 

“Goodbye, Y/N.” Andrew said. 

“Take care, Andrew.”

“You too.” Andrew turned around for a last word. “I hope...I hope that whoever the lucky guy you’re in love with gets his act together and doesn’t miss out on a chance like you.” Andrew said. 

“If only he would.” She said. 

~

Y/N wasn’t alone. She had come to terms with her single status, but she was by no means lonely. John and Mary spent more nights at Mary’s place than at 221B, so the flat felt like Y/N’s own space. She danced around the kitchen and sprawled on the couch, and took really long showers on those mornings when it was especially hard to get out of bed. 

Life became a sufficient routine of work and friends. 

Y/N ate lunch most days at the clinic with John and Mary. On quiet nights on Baker Street, Y/N would tiptoe down to 221A in her pajamas and watch “The Great British Baking Show” with her mother. Y/N hosted game nights with karaoke and intense rounds of Cluedo with their whole friend group. At least once a month, Mycroft would whisk her away in his black car for a business dinner where she updated him on cases and he relaxed enough to let his posture slacken. 

Y/N carried on. Every once in a while she’d falter long enough to press a hand to her sternum, hoping to ease the persisting pain. 

The announcement came in September, around the time John began growing a moustache.  

“Mary and I are moving in together.” John said. 

He stood in the kitchen doorway, holding Mary’s hand. They beamed at Y/N. Y/N dropped her spoon into the cereal bowl with a clatter. She leapt up, pulling them into a big group hug. 

“That’s amazing!” She squealed. 

“We’re going to rent a place in Hampstead.” Mary said. “It’s a fair bit bigger than my current place, but still in our price range.” 

“We’re going up to look at it today, if you want to come.” John said. 

“Yes, please!” Y/N said. “I’ll go get dressed.” 

 

Y/N sat with John in his new living room. She held a mug of tea as they caught up a bit following a long undercover case she’d been working in Cheshire. The once white-walled flat boasted maroon wallpaper and tasteful decorations selected by Mary’s eye and John’s off-hand approval. 

The flat held a kitchen, a master bedroom, a laundry room, two bathrooms, and an extra room. Y/N thought it was a perfect kid’s room, but she held back from saying so. John and Mary would get there eventually. 

In the midst of their conversation, the doorbell rang. Lestrade had arrived with a box of old things he’d finally cleared out of his office. 

“It’s been a day of memory lane today.” He said. “I just had a coffee with Anderson. He’s got some half-cocked theory that Sherlock is coming back. Showed me all these crime stories from around the world like a trail. Poor sod took losing his job harder than I thought.” 

“Anyway, there’s something here, and I wasn’t sure if I should have kept it in.” Lestrade went on, opening the box. “You remember the video message we made for your birthday, John? Practically threatened him. This is the uncut version, it’s actually quite funny.” 

“Oh, right, yeah.” John said.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it.” Lestrade said, looking at the identical expressions on his friends’ faces. 

“No, it’s okay.” Y/N said. 

After Lestrade went back to the Yard, John and Y/N each poured themselves a glass of whiskey and put the disc in the video player. The couch in 221B appeared on screen. 

“Was that supposed to happen? The light going down? Yeah, okay.” Sherlock said. 

The sound of his voice sent shivers down Y/N’s spine. 

“Oh, er, erm. So what do you want me to do at the end? Shall I smile and wink? I do that sometimes, I have no idea why. People seem to like it. It humanizes me.” He said. 

“It’s fine, whatever.” Lestrade said from behind the camera. 

“Why am I doing this again?” Sherlock asked. 

“You’re going to miss the dinner.” 

“Of course I’m going to miss dinner, there’ll be people.” Sherlock said. 

Y/N let out a breathless laugh, tears welling up in her eyes. John reached over and took her hand. 

“How could John be having a birthday dinner? All his friends hate him ― well, not Y/N. But you only have to look at their faces.” Sherlock said. “I wrote an essay on suppressed hatred in close proximity based entirely on John’s friends. On reflection, it probably wasn’t a very good choice of gift.” Sherlock trailed off. 

He took a breath, refocusing. “What was my excuse again?” 

“You said you had a thing.” Lestrade said. 

“Oh right, yes, that’s right. A thing.”

“You might want to elaborate.” Lestrade suggested. 

“No, no, no. Only lies have detail.” Sherlock said. “Right, I just need a moment to figure out what I’m going to do.” 

“I’ll tell you what you can do,” John took a sip of whiskey. “You can stop being dead.”

“Okay.” Sherlock said. 

Y/N’s grip tightened on John’s hand. 

“Okay, I’m ready now.” Sherlock continued. “Hello, John. I’m sorry I’m not there right now, but I’m very busy. However, many happy returns. Oh and don’t worry, I’m going to be with you again very soon.” 

On the screen, Sherlock smiled and winked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwntNANJCOE&t=0s&list=FLh_am8Mtij9j7UczefbE3ig&index=16


	24. The Empty Hearse Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are ladies and jellybeans! You've done it, you've survived, you've made it to the return. It worked out a bit too perfectly that I get to post this lovely update on my favorite day of the year.   
> So without any further ado...happy Halloween and happy reading!

_ From: M. Hudson To: Y/N Hudson, John Watson _

_ Subject: Good News!  _

_ Fwd from bbc.co.uk/news _

_ Two years ago, London was gripped by the story of Richard Brook, and actor allegedly hired by internet phenomenon Sherlock Holmes to play the role of international criminal James Moriarty.  _

_ After extensive police and government investigations, it was proven that Richard Brook was a fabrication of James Moriarty. There was uproar in court today as Sherlock Holmes was cleared of all suspicion.  _

_ The news comes too late for the detective; however, as he fell to his death from the top of Bart’s Hospital, in the autumn of 2012… _

 

The article went on, but Y/N didn’t read any further. Instead, she closed her laptop and headed upstairs to speak to Mycroft. No answer came at her knock. 

“Rebecca?” Y/N backtracked to Mycroft’s assistant’s desk. “Where’s Mr. Holmes?” 

“Out of the office, m’um.” Rebecca said, not looking away from her computer screen. 

“Out of the office meaning out of the country?” She asked. “He’s been gone for a few days now.” Y/N said.

“That’s classified, m’um.” Rebecca said. 

“Uh huh.” Y/N said. 

She turned around and walked back to her own office. Sherlock’s name had been cleared, which could only mean that Moriarty’s criminal network had finally been destroyed. Y/N supposed her questions could wait until Mycroft returned from whatever high level deal he was making. 

Y/N stayed at the office for a few more hours, connecting the final pieces of a corruption case she was working on. In the early evening, she called it a day and headed home. Y/N spent a quiet evening with a book and some tea. 

Around eight, John came up the stairs. 

“Hello,” She said. “Where’s your counterpart?” 

John rolled his eyes. “We do spend time apart occasionally. I have something I want to talk to you about.” He said. 

Y/N immediately closed her book. She got up and led him to the couch. 

“Everything alright?” She asked. 

“Yeah, everything is great.” He said.

He set his jaw. “I want to ask Mary to marry me.” He said. 

Y/N’s jaw dropped in an enormous smile. “OH MY GOD!” 

“Listen, it’s not a big-” He tried to calm her down. 

“It is a big deal! Oh my god! You’re going to get married!” She exclaimed. 

“She hasn’t said yes yet.” 

“Like she’d say no.” Y/N said. “You two are perfect for each other. Oh, I’m so happy!” 

“When are you going to ask her?” Y/N asked. 

John smiled. “Tomorrow night. I have reservations at the Marylebone Road.” 

“Ooh, fancy.” Y/N teased. 

“She deserves the best.” John said seriously. 

Y/N put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I know.” She said. 

“It’ll be unforgettable.” She assured him. “And I fully expect to hear all about it afterwards, okay?” 

“Yes, alright.” John agreed. 

~

“You have been busy, haven’t you?” Mycroft said, looking over a file. 

He sat in his other office, the secret one in the sub-basement of MI6. Across the room, his younger brother, fresh from field work in Europe, got a shave and a haircut. 

“Quite the busy little bee.” He chuckled. 

“Moriarty’s Network.” Sherlock said. “Took me two years to dismantle it.” 

“And you’re confident you have?” Mycroft asked. 

“The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle.” Sherlock said. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “You got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertius. Quite a scheme.” 

“Colossal.” Sherlock said.

“Anyway, you’re safe now.” Mycroft said. 

“Hmm.” 

“A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.” Mycroft said snidely. 

“What for?” Sherlock asked.

“For wading.” Mycroft grew exasperated. “In case you’ve forgotten, field work is not my natural milieu.” 

Sherlock waved the barber off. He sat up with a groan, his movement hampered by a cracked rib and bruises across his torso. 

“Wading in?” He growled. “You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp.”

“I got you out.” Mycroft argued. 

“No, I got me out.” Sherlock said. “Why didn’t you intervene sooner?” 

“I couldn’t risk giving myself away, could I?” Mycroft said. “It would have ruined everything.” 

“You were enjoying it.” Sherlock said. 

“Nonsense.” 

“Definitely enjoying it.” Sherlock said. 

“Listen, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going undercover? Smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The noise, the people!” Mycroft complained. 

Sherlock lowered himself back down. “I didn’t know you spoke Serbian.” 

“I didn’t.” Mycroft said. “But the language has a Slavic root. Frequent Turkish and German loan words. Took me a couple of hours.” 

“Hmm, you’re slipping.” said Sherlock. 

“Middle age, brother mine.” Mycroft said. “Comes to us all.”

The hydraulic door to the office opened with a hiss, and Rebecca entered, carrying clothes for Sherlock. The barber finished his work, Sherlock changed into the familiar black suit. 

“I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock, is that quite clear?” Mycroft said. 

“What do you think of this shirt?” Sherlock asked, tucking it in. 

“Sherlock!”

“I will find your underground terrorist cell, Mycroft.” Sherlock said. “Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in. Feel every quiver of its beating heart.”

“One of our men died getting this information.” Rebecca cut in. “All the chatter, all the traffic concurs. There’s going to be a terrorist strike on London, a big one.” 

Sherlock pulled on the black suit jacket, adjusting the lapels. 

“And what about Y/N Hudson?” He asked. 

“Y/N?” Mycroft asked. 

“Yes, and John Watson. Have you seen them?” Sherlock asked. 

“I’ve kept an eye on them, of course.” Mycroft said. 

Rebecca handed Sherlock a file. 

“We haven’t been in touch at all to prepare them.” Mycroft said. “Y/N thinks I’m on a business trip.” 

“Yes, I’m sure she believed that one.” Sherlock said. 

The detective pulled out a photo of John from a week prior. His nose wrinkled at the sight of John’s mustache. 

“Well, we’ll have to get rid of that.” Sherlock said. 

“We?” 

“He looks ancient. Y/N was probably too nice to tell him and I can’t be seen to be wandering around with an old man.” Sherlock sighed. “I think I’ll surprise them. They’ll be delighted.” 

“You think so?”

“Hmm, pop into Baker Street, who knows, jump out of a cake.” Sherlock mused. 

“Baker Street?” Mycroft asked. “John isn’t there any more. Why would he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life. Y/N did move in though, so you might find her if she’s not working on a case.” 

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Interesting.” 

“Where will John be tonight?” He asked.

“How would I know?” Mycroft asked. 

“You always know.” Sherlock said. 

“He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 St Emilion, though I prefer the 2001.” 

“I think maybe I’ll just drop by on my way to Baker Street.” Sherlock said. 

“You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome.” Mycroft said. 

“No it isn’t.” Sherlock scoffed. “Now, where is it?” 

“Where’s what?” Mycroft asked. 

“You know what.” Sherlock said. 

Rebecca returned, carrying Sherlock’s coat. He smiled, putting it on and flipping up the collar. 

“Welcome back, Mr. Holmes.” 

~

Sherlock stood in front of 221B Baker Street. The door looked the same, with its knocker slightly askew, and the paint chipping a bit. He swiped his hand under his nose, checking for any excess blood. John had hit him pretty hard. 

He ran a hand through his dark curls, and made sure his collar was flipped up. He pulled a little copper key from his pocket and opened the front door. 

221A was dark, seeing as it was several hours past when Mrs. Hudson usually went to bed. Light and warmth filtered down the stairs from 221B. Sherlock could hear Y/N’s footsteps as she moved from the sitting room to the kitchen. He heard the clink of a teacup. He heard her humming quietly to herself. 

Sherlock smiled, and began to climb the stairs. 

Y/N heard footsteps on the stairs as she filled the kettle with water for tea. Y/N grinned as she placed the kettle on the stove and turned on the heat. John must be back bearing good news.

“What happened?” She called. “You can tell me everything over a celebratory cup of―”  

Y/N turned around. 

“...tea.” She breathed. 

Sherlock stood in the kitchen doorway. Y/N gripped the countertop for support as her breath hitched and her knees went weak. Sherlock took a step closer, a painfully familiar expression in his blue eyes. Y/N stumbled backwards. 

“Sherlock.” 

“Y/N.” 

Y/N nearly melted at the sound of her name in the voice she hadn’t heard in so long. His hair was unruly, there was a cut on his lip, he was jetlagged, he wore his coat, his eyes were blue, he was back, he was alive. 

Y/N felt a tear slip down her cheek as she rushed at him. He moved at the same time, meeting her in the middle and gathering her up in an embrace. Her breathing was ragged against him as she cried. Sherlock held her as tightly as he could, revelling in how much he’d missed the feeling of her being near, of her body on his. Her hands were under the warmth of his coat, and she gripped the back of his suit jacket tightly, as if checking that he wouldn’t disappear. Sherlock was intoxicated by the smell of her shampoo wafting towards him as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. 

“I’m here.” He said, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. 

Y/N pulled back enough to look at him. Sherlock moved his hands to her hips, refusing to lose physical contact. She reached up and brushed his cheek tentatively, her other hand landing on his shoulder. Y/N looked him directly in the eye. 

“Promise me you’ll never do that again.” She said. 

“You’re not going to ask me why? Or how? You’re not going to punch me?” He wondered. 

“I don’t want to know why or how.” She said. “It’ll make me angry and I desperately don’t want to be angry with you. I want you to promise me you’ll never do it again.” 

Sherlock gazed at her, moving closer. Y/N’s eyes flicked from his eyes to his mouth as her breath picked up again. Sherlock tilted his head and kissed her softly on the cheek. 

“I promise.” He said. 

Y/N slid her arms into the coat again, pulling him back into a hug. She rested her head on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and held her close. 

He was home.

After a good long while, Sherlock pulled away enough to look at her face. He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“I need your help.” He said. 

She smiled. “The game is back on?”

“Indubitably.”  

~

“London. It’s like a great cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents, and drifters are irresistibly drained. Sometimes it’s not a question of who, it’s a question of who knows.” 

“Your markers.” Y/N said, watching while Sherlock assembled a case board above the sofa. 

“Exactly.” He said. “If they start to move, I’ll know something’s up. Like rats deserting a sinking ship.” 

Sherlock sunk into his chair, typing messages to the Network about who to watch and what behavior to alert him of. Y/N felt a bit like she couldn’t breathe, seeing him sitting in his chair in his red dressing gown as though nothing at all had changed. 

“You’re staring.” He said. 

Y/N took a shaky breath, smiling. “Yeah.” She said. 

He looked up, alarmed at the tears shining in her eyes. 

“Are you alright?” He asked. 

Sherlock stood, taking a step closer to her and studying her as if trying to find the cause of her emotional outburst. Y/N laughed a little, and ran a hand through her hair. 

“I’m so much better than alright.” She said.

“But...you’re crying.” He said, confused. 

Y/N reached out and pinched some of the silky fabric of the sleeve of his dressing gown. 

“I just,” She let out a breath, still smiling, “I missed you so very much.” 

He slid his arm away until his larger palm lined up with her hand. He brushed his thumb across her knuckles. He’d seen his father do the same to his mother when she was upset, and assumed that it was a calming and affectionate gesture. 

“I missed you too.” He said. 

“Sherlock,” Y/N said. “You don’t have to say that to make me feel better. It’s okay if you didn’t. I know you were probably occupied with your mission and―” 

Sherlock grabbed her other hand. 

“No, Y/N.” He said. “I did...miss you. I don’t have much experience with the phenomenon, but I did. I found myself without the people I most rely on, and it proved an unexpected mental challenge in my work.” 

“Flattering.” Y/N said. “I always wanted to be an unexpected mental challenge.” 

Sherlock smirked. “I’m sure.” 

Y/N squeezed his hands and then let go. “I’m so happy you’re back.” She said, heading into the kitchen to make some breakfast. Sherlock sat back down in his chair, observing his new flatmate carefully. 

By the time three of the photos on the board had been crossed out, Mycroft came to call. The Holmes brothers were in the midst of an intense game of operation when Y/N appeared, fully dressed and ready for the day. 

“That’s all very interesting, Sherlock, but the terror alert has been raised to critical.” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock moved his knight. “Boring. Your move.” 

“We have solid information, an attack is coming.” Mycroft insisted. 

Y/N settled on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, observing the odd family game tradition. 

“Solid information,” Sherlock scoffed. “A secret terrorist organization is planning an attack. It’s what secret terror organizations do, isn’t it? It’s their version of golf.” 

“An agent gave his life to tell us that.” Mycroft said. 

“Oh, well, perhaps he shouldn’t have done.” Sherlock said. “He was obviously just trying to show off.”

Mycroft looked at Y/N. “You know, I’m beginning to miss the time when it was just you.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “None of my markers are behaving suspiciously, but you’ll have to trust me, Mycroft. I’ll find the answer. But it will be in an odd phrase on an online blog, or an unexpected trip to the countryside or a misplaced lonely hearts ad. Your move.” 

“I’ve given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you’re on the case.” Mycroft said. 

“I am on the case, we’re all on the case.” Sherlock said. “Look at us right now.”

A buzzer sounded loudly as Mycroft’s tweezers snagged. 

“Oh bugger!” 

“Oopsy.” Sherlock teased. “Can’t handle a broken heart. How very telling.”

“Don’t be smart.” Mycroft said. 

“That takes me back.” Sherlock said, leaning back. “‘Don’t be smart, Sherlock, I’m the smart one.’” 

“I am the smart one.” Mycroft insisted. 

“I used to think I was an idiot.” Sherlock said. 

“Both of us thought you were an idiot. We had nothing else to go on until we met other children.” Mycroft said. 

“Oh, yes, that was a mistake.” Sherlock said. 

“Then you discovered I’m smarter than both of you.” Y/N said cheerfully. 

Sherlock chuckled, his hand brushing against her leg on the armrest of his chair. Y/N did her best to conceal the shiver running down her spine. 

“Ghastly, what were our parents thinking of?” Mycroft wondered.

“Perhaps they wanted you to make friends?” Y/N suggested. 

“Oh, yes. ‘Friends.’” Mycroft said. “Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now.” He gestured to his brother and Y/N. 

“And you don’t? Ever?” Sherlock furrowed his brow. 

“If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I’m living in a world of goldfish.” Mycroft said. 

“Ouch.” Y/N said. 

“Oh, you know I don’t mean you.” Mycroft dismissed. 

“Yes, but I’ve been away for two years.” Sherlock said. 

“So?” Mycroft asked. 

“Oh, I don’t know, I thought you might have found yourself a goldfish.” Sherlock said. 

“I tried to find him one,” Y/N said. “Never did approve.” 

“Change the subject. Now.” Mycroft ordered, standing. 

“Rest assured Mycroft, whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre.” Sherlock clapped his hands. “Let’s play something different!” 

Mycroft scoffed. “Why are we playing games?”

“London’s terror alert has been raised to critical.” Sherlock stood as well. “I’m just passing the time.”

“Let’s do deductions.” Sherlock went on, retrieving a wool hat from the desk and tossing it to his brother. “Client left this while I was out, what do you reckon?” 

“I’m busy.” Mycroft said. 

“Oh, go on, it’s been an age.” Sherlock said. 

Mycroft gave the hat a sniff. “I always win.” 

“Which is why you can’t resist.” 

“I find nothing irresistible in the hat of a well-traveled, anxious, sentimental, unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis. Damn!” 

Mycroft tossed the hat over his shoulder, and Y/N caught it. 

“Isolated, too, no?” She said, studying the object. 

“Why would he be isolated?” Mycroft asked. 

“He?” Sherlock questioned. 

“Obviously.” Mycroft said. 

“Why? Size of the hat?” Sherlock asked. 

“Don’t be silly, some women have large heads too. No, he’s recently had his hair cut, you can see the little hairs adhering to the perspiration stains on the inside.” Mycroft said. 

“Women can have short hair.” Y/N pointed out. 

“Balance of probability.” Mycroft argued. 

“Not that you’ve ever spoken to a woman with short hair, or you know, a woman.” Sherlock grumbled. 

“Stains show he’s out of condition.” Mycroft went on. “And he’s sentimental because the hat has been repaired three...four―” 

“Five times, and very neatly too.” Y/N said, throwing the hat back to Sherlock. He then tossed it back to his brother.

“The cost of the repairs exceeds the cost of the hat, so he’s mawkishly attached to it. But it’s more than that. One, perhaps two patches would indicate sentimentality, but five? Five’s obsessive behavior. Obsessive-compulsive.” Sherlock spoke quickly. 

“Hardly.” Mycroft disagreed, throwing the hat once again at his younger brother. “Your client left it behind. What sort of obsessive-compulsive would do that? The earlier patches are extensively sun-bleached, so he’s worn it abroad, in Peru.” 

“Peru?” Sherlock asked. 

“It’s a Chullo, a hat made in the Andes.” Y/N said. 

“Made of alpaca.” Mycroft added. 

“No, Icelandic sheep’s wool.” Sherlock corrected. “Similar but very distinctive if you know what you’re looking for. I’ve written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibers. You said he was anxious?”

“The bobble on the left side has been badly chewed which shows he’s a man of a nervous disposition but…” 

“But also a creature of habit because he hasn’t chewed the bobble on the right.” Sherlock finished. “A brief sniff of the offending bobble tells us everything we need to know about the state of his breath. Brilliant!” 

“Elementary.” Mycroft boasted. 

“But you missed the isolation.” Y/N said. 

“I don’t see it.” Mycroft said. 

“Plain as day.” Sherlock said, sending Y/N a knowing look. 

“Where?” 

“There for all to see.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Plain as the nose…” 

“Tell me!” 

“Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this isn’t in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?” Sherlock revealed. 

“Not at all, maybe he just doesn’t mind being different.” Mycroft argued. “He doesn’t necessarily have to be isolated.” 

“Very true.” Y/N said. 

“Sorry?” Mycroft asked. 

“He’s different? So what? Why would he mind?” Sherlock said, putting on the hat. “Why would anyone mind?” 

Mycroft’s jaw hung open as he searched for what to say. “I’m not lonely, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock stepped closer to his brother. “How would you know?” 

Y/N watched, intrigued as Sherlock stepped past his brother and came to stand with her close enough that their shoulders touched. He winked at her. 

“Yes. Back to work, if you don’t mind.” Mycroft said, collecting his umbrella and heading out. “Good morning.” 

“Right. Back to work.” Sherlock said, looking at the case board again. 

Over the next few hours, Y/N and Sherlock crossed off several more photos as information came in from the Network. 

“Sherlock?” Y/N asked. 

“Mhm.” He said, typing on his phone. 

“What happened with John last night? I figured he would be here with us, but-” 

“John made his position very clear.” Sherlock said. 

“What did he say?” Y/N asked tentatively. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Oh.” Y/N said. “He’s...angry. I’m sure he’ll get over it. You were...we all...it was hard.” 

Sherlock turned away from the window. “Do you want to solve some crimes?” He asked. 

“What is it you think we’re doing here?” Y/N asked. 

“No I mean―” The doorbell rang. “That crime.” 

“A client.” Y/N said, smiling. “You’re back for two seconds, and they’re already flooding in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HE'S BACK HE'S BACK HE'S BACK HE'S BACK 
> 
> Ugh, it feels like it's been sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo long. I hope you all liked the update, and will share all your thoughts and theories with me. 
> 
> Love you!


	25. The Empty Hearse Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys just a heads up - I'll be taking a week or two hiatus after the chapter. Life has gotten busy again, as it is want to do, and I need some extra time to write good chapters, and not just quick (and crappy) updates. So bear with me, and I promise I'll be back soon.

“Well, absolutely no one should have been able to empty that bank account other than myself and Helen.” Mr. Harcourt, the client, said. 

Sherlock stood up from his chair. “Why didn’t you assume it was your wife?” 

“Because I’ve always had total faith in her.” Mr. Harcourt said. 

“No, it’s because you emptied it.” Sherlock said. “Weight loss, hair dye, Botox, affair.” 

Y/N held a business card out towards Mrs. Harcourt. 

“Lawyer.” She said.

“And your pen-pal’s emails just stopped, did they?” Sherlock asked. 

The woman who’d come in a few minutes before began to cry. Sherlock let go of her hand, and walked over to where Y/N sat, jotting down a few notes. 

“Stepfather posing as online boyfriend.” He said. “Breaks it off, breaks her heart, she swears off relationships, stays at home and he still has her wage coming in.” 

Y/N put down her pen, enraged. 

“Mr. Windibank, you have been a total―” 

 

“This one has us all baffled.” Lestrade said, tearing crime scene tape from a doorway. 

For their latest crime, Sherlock felt the need to leave the flat and delve into the Yard’s unsolvable cases. 

“I don’t doubt it.” Sherlock said. 

The three investigators descended into a moldy basement. A skeleton sat behind an ornate wooden desk, dressed in a suit. Lestrade flicked on two CSI lights, and Y/N and Sherlock got to work. 

The body smelled of cedar and new mothballs, and Y/N could detect races of fire damage. Sherlock pulled out his phone, researching. 

The floor rumbled, shaking dust loose. 

“Trains?” Lestrade asked. 

“Trains.” Sherlock confirmed. 

Y/N examined the bones more closely. 

“Male, 40 to 50.” She said. “But the skeleton can’t be more than six months old.” 

Sherlock opened a hidden compartment in the desk and pulled out a book. He blew dust from the cover, revealing the title:  _ How I Did It  _ by Jack the Ripper.

“It’s impossible!” Lestrade exclaimed. 

“The corpse is six months old. It’s dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It’s been displayed on a dummy for many years, in a case facing southeast, judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire damage sale a week ago.” Sherlock explained. 

“So the whole thing was a fake?” Lestrade asked. 

“Yes.” Y/N agreed. 

“Looked so promising.” Lestrade complained. 

Sherlock was already on his way out the door, reading a text from another client. Y/N gave Lestrade a smile and followed her detective out of the door. 

Y/N pressed the doorbell of a flat in Surrey. Instead of a bell, it blared “mind the gap, mind the gap.” A heavyset man in his mid-thirties, Howard Shilcott, opened the door. Sherlock held out the Chullo he and Mycroft had deduced earlier that morning. 

“Oh, thanks for hanging onto it.” Howard said. 

“No problem.” Sherlock said. “So, what’s this all about, Mr. Shilcott?”

“My girlfriend’s a big fan of yours.” Howard said as they followed him into an office coated in train paraphernalia. 

Sherlock chuckled. “Girlfriend?” 

Y/N slapped his shoulder, shushing him. 

“Sorry, do go on.” Sherlock said. 

“I like trains.” Howard said. 

“Yes.” 

“I work on the Tube, on the District Line, and part of my job is to wipe the security footage after it’s been cleared.” Howard sat down at his desk, pulling a video up on his computer. “I was just whizzing through, and, uh, I found something a bit bizarre.” 

Sherlock and Y/N shared a look before moving to stand behind Howard. 

“Now, this was a week ago.” Howard pressed play. “The last train on the Friday night, Westminster Station. Now, this man gets into the last car.” 

“Car?” Y/N asked. 

“They’re cars, not carriages.” Howard corrected. “It’s the legacy of the early American involvement in the Tube system.” 

Y/N raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, trying not to laugh. 

“He said he liked trains.” Sherlock said lowly. 

“And the next stop, St. James’s Park Station. And…” 

The train doors open, but no one gets off. In fact, there’s no one to be seen inside the car at all. Sherlock and Y/N both leaned in to look closer. 

“I thought you’d like it.” Howard said. “He gets into the last car at Westminster, the only passenger, and the car is empty at St. James’s Park Station. Explain that, Mr. Holmes.” 

“There’s something else.” Howard went on, “The driver of that train hasn’t been to work since. According to his flatmate, he’s on holiday. Came into some money.”

“Bought off?” Sherlock suggested. 

“Most likely.” Y/N agreed. “If the driver was in on it, the passenger must have gotten off.” 

“There’s nowhere he could go.” Howard insisted. “It’s a straight run on the District Line between the two stations. There’s no side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels. Nothing on any map. Nothing. The train never stops, and the man vanishes. Good, innit?”

Sherlock watched the security footage of the man getting in the car. “I know that face.” 

He entered his mind palace, searching for answers. Y/N knew he might be there for a while, so she continued asking Howard questions ― about the case, his life, and trains. 

By the time Sherlock opened his eyes, Howard was off working on a train set, and Y/N had made some deductions of her own. 

“The trip from Westminster to St. James’s Park normally takes five minutes. That journey took ten.” She said.

“We’re going to need maps, lot’s of maps. Older maps, all the maps.” Sherlock said, heading out of the flat and down the stairs to the street. 

Y/N followed. “Definitely.” 

“Fancy some chips?” Sherlock asked. 

“Excuse me?” Y/N asked. 

“I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road, the owner always gives me extra portions.” Sherlock explained. 

“Did you clear him of murder?” Y/N asked. 

“No, I helped him put up some shelves.” Sherlock replied. 

“Sherlock?” Y/N asked. “You don’t eat during cases.” 

“No?” Sherlock said, waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

“No.” Y/N said, standing across from him in the foyer. 

“No, and you don’t either.” He said, stepping up to her and buttoning her coat. 

“True.” She breathed. 

“So,” He pulled her collar up, brushing her jaw in the process. “Fancy some chips?” 

“Sure.” She managed. 

“Good.” Sherlock said, smiling softly. 

He stepped back, leading her out onto the street, where snow began to fall. Despite the cold, they decided to walk to Marylebone Road. 

“Where did you go?” Y/N asked eventually. 

“Hm?” 

“While you were away, where did you go?” She clarified. 

“Moriarty’s network was vast.” Sherlock said. “I disassembled branches in Germany, India, Switzerland, and a number of other places.” 

“Did...was, erm...were you alright?” Y/N asked. 

“It was dangerous at times, yes.” Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around his torso, where the bruises from his time in Serbia were still fresh.

“I wish―” Y/N began. “Well, you’re back now, that’s what matters.” Y/N said. 

Sherlock glanced at her as they walked. Her hands were shoved deep into her pockets and her shoulders were hunched up defensively against the cold and her own emotions. He knew there was something bothering her. 

Y/N didn’t finish whatever it was she was going to say. Sherlock had no idea how to make her feel better. He knew it was his fault, and it left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock wasn’t used to guilt. Part of him was angry, didn’t she understand that he had no choice? The other part of him knew that if she had died...well, he wouldn’t have let that happen. 

They reached the fish shop and he bought her a large helping of fish and chips. It was too cold to stay and eat, so he hailed them a cab and she brought the golden treat back to Baker Street. 

Y/N insisted on sharing the fish and chips with Sherlock, and they’d just tucked in at the kitchen table when a commotion erupted from downstairs. 

“I think someone’s got John. John Watson?” Mary’s voice said. 

Sherlock’s eyes met Y/N’s and they both leapt to their feet. Mary came up the stairs, and Y/N and Sherlock met her in the doorway. 

“What’s happened?” Y/N asked. 

“Someone sent me this.” Mary pulled out her mobile phone. “At first I thought it was just a Bible things, you know, spam, but it’s not. It’s a skip code.”

She pulled up a long text. 

“First word, then every third.” Sherlock said. 

“‘Save John Watson’” Y/N decoded, before rushing down the stairs. 

Sherlock and Mary followed. They stood on the dark street as rain began to drizzle. 

“Where are we going?” Mary asked. 

“St. James the Less.” Sherlock called over his shoulder. “It’s a church. Twenty minutes by car. Did you drive here?” 

“Yes.” Mary said. 

“We don’t have enough time.” Y/N said. 

“What are we waiting for?” Mary exclaimed. 

“This.” Sherlock stepped into the street as a motorcycle approached. He ordered the two passengers to relinquish the bike and the helmets. 

“Mary, take your car.” Y/N said, getting on the bike behind Sherlock. “We’ll save him.” 

Sherlock sped off, winding down streets, and speeding around corners. Y/N held Mary’s phone as another message came in. 

_ Getting warmer, Mr. Holmes. You have ten minutes.  _

“That are they going to do to him?” Y/N asked worriedly. 

“I don’t know.” 

_ Eight minutes and counting… _

Police blocked the street ahead of them. Sherlock turned to the left and rode down a pedestrian walkway, cutting their time by at least three minutes. They rattled down two sets of steps. 

_ Better hurry, things are heating up around here.  _

Y/N tightened her grip around Sherlock’s waist as they wove between traffic. 

_ Stay of execution. You have two minutes.  _

“Sherlock, they’re going to kill him.” Y/N said. 

_ Getting warmer...heating up...oh my god.  _ She thought. 

“It’s bonfire night, we have to―” She shouted. 

_ What a shame Mr. Holmes. John’s quite a Guy! _

The pulled alongside the church as a man lit the Guy Fawkes bonfire. The crowd cheered as the flame rose. Y/N’s heart pounded as she jumped off the bike. They abandoned the motorcycle and pushed through the screaming crowd to reach the burning pile. 

“John!” Sherlock bellowed, grabbing pieces of wood and ripping them away from the pyre. 

Y/N braved the heat with her detective, pulling hot debris away until they saw him. Sherlock and Y/N grabbed their friend, dragging him away from the fire. He lay on the ground, delirious but alive. They knelt above him. 

“John? John?” 

“John, say something.” Y/N looked him over for burns and injuries. 

“John!” Mary’s voice came over the crowd. 

She ran to them, falling on the ground next her fiancée, crying. John coughed, reaching towards her weakly. 

Y/N breathed a sigh of relief, dropping her head on Sherlock’s shoulder. He squeezed Y/N’s hand, watching Mary and John reunite. 

~

Y/N and Sherlock were making breakfast when unexpected visitors arrived at Baker Street. Sherlock left the pan on the stove at the sight of them, immediately trying to get them to leave.

“Good morning, love.” The older woman said. 

“Hello, son.” The man said. 

Y/N’s face broke out in an enormous grin as she watched the interaction from the kitchen doorway. 

“Sherlock, are these your parents?” She asked. 

Sherlock suppressed a frown. “Yes. It’s not a big deal, they were just leaving―” 

“No they were not!” Y/N said. “You are not kicking your parents out on my watch.”

She walked over to them, offering a handshake. 

“Hello, I’m Y/N. It’s lovely to meet you.” She said. 

“Oh! You’re her!” Sherlock’s mother pulled Y/N into a hug. 

Sherlock’s father shook her hand with both of his, smiling. “We’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“You have?” Y/N raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. 

All of a sudden, he regained interest in the breakfast making process. 

“Yes, well Mycroft can’t tell us about his life, and we don’t particularly like to hear about the murders Sherlock solves.” 

“I see.” Y/N said. “Would you like to join us for breakfast? Sherlock and I were just making some egg sandwiches.” 

“Sherlock is cooking?” His father asked. 

“Well, yes.” Y/N said. “Eggs are the only thing I trust him with, but he makes them very well.” 

“You are a wonder!” Sherlock’s mother exclaimed. 

Y/N laughed. “Thank you. I don’t know that I’d go that far, but thank you.” 

Y/N led Mr. and Mrs. Holmes into the kitchen and sat them at the table. She poured them all steaming cups of tea and asked a lot of questions. 

“What were Sherlock and Mycroft like as children?” 

“Has Sherlock always loved mysteries?” 

“How did you two meet?” 

Sherlock frowned into his sandwich as his parents told stories and asked Y/N questions as well. They all eventually moved to the sitting room with Sherlock’s parents on the couch, Y/N at the desk nearby, listening, and Sherlock pouting in his chair. 

“We always knew Mycroft would be a leader.” 

“Sherlock was our sweet little pirate. He was always so observational and astute, but he loved to play more than his brother.” 

“How long did you live in the States?” 

“What drew you to forensics and investigating?” 

“We met in London, not too far from here, actually. She was getting in and elevator as I was getting out. I saw her and...well, I thought she was unlike anyone I’d ever met.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sure there’s some London activity you two are just dying to go do or see or eat.” 

“Oh, that reminds me, the funniest thing happened the other day.” His father said. “I couldn’t find my lotto ticket, and your mum and I were thinking about how much we needed our consulting detective to help us.” 

“I said, ‘Have you checked down the back of the sofa?’ He’s always losing things down the back of the sofa, aren’t you dear?” His mother said. 

“Afraid so.” Sherlock’s father agreed. 

“Oh, keys, small changes, sweeties. Especially his glasses.” 

“Glasses.” Sherlock’s father said at the same time. 

“Blooming things. I said, ‘Why don’t you get a chain, wear ‘em round your neck?’ and he says, ‘What? Like Larry Grayson?’” 

“Larry Grayson.” Sherlock’s parents spoke at once again. 

Sherlock stood up, impatient. “So did you find it, your lottery ticket?” 

Sherlock stepped on top of the coffee table, looking at his case board. 

“Well, yes, thank goodness. We caught the coach on time after all. We managed to see St. Paul’s, the Tower, but they weren’t letting anyone into Parliament. Some big debate going on.” Sherlock’s mother said. 

The door opened, revealing John. 

“John!” Sherlock and Y/N said at the same time. 

“Sorry, you’re busy.” John said. 

“No, no, no, they were just leaving.” Sherlock said, ushering his parents up and towards the door. 

“Oh, no, were we?” Sherlock’s mother protested. 

“Yes.” Sherlock insisted, leading them to the door by the arm. 

“No, if you’ve got a case…” John protested. 

“No, not a case, no, no, no.” Sherlock said. 

“Well, we’re here ‘till Saturday, remember.” Sherlock’s mother said as he herded her out the door.

“Yes, great, wonderful. Just get out.” 

“Yes, well, give us a ring.” She continued. “It was wonderful to meet you, Y/N dear!” 

“Very nice, yes, good. Get out.” 

Sherlock’s mother stopped the door being shut in her face with the toe of her shoe. 

“I can’t tell you how glad we are, Sherlock.” She whispered. “All that time, people thinking the worst of you. We’re just so pleased it’s all over.” 

“Ring up more often, won’t you?” Sherlock’s father asked. “She worries.” 

“Mmmhmmm.” Sherlock tried to close the door again. 

“Promise?” Sherlock’s mother said. 

“Promise.” Sherlock said before finally shutting the door and leaning back against it. 

“Sorry about that.” He said. 

“No, it’s fine.” John said. “Clients?” 

“Just his parents.” Y/N said with a cheeky smile. 

Sherlock gave her a look. 

“Your parents?” John asked. 

“In town for a few days.” Sherlock explained. 

“Your parents?” John repeated. 

“Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of  _ Les Mis _ . Tried to talk me into doing it.”

John looked out the window. “Those were your parents?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well,” John chuckled. “That is not what I…” 

Y/N began to giggle as well. “It’s really not what either of us…” 

“What?” Sherlock asked, confused. 

“I mean they’re just so...ordinary.” John said. 

“It’s a cross I have to bear.” Sherlock said. 

Y/N and John chuckled for a moment until John became serious. 

“Did they know too?” 

“Hmm?” Sherlock feigned innocence.

“That you’ve spent the last two years playing hide and seek?” 

Sherlock fiddled with some paper on his desk. “Maybe.” 

“Ah, so that’s why they weren’t at the funeral!” John said. 

“Sorry, sorry again!” Sherlock exclaimed.  

Y/N grabbed the cuff of his sleeve, brushing his wrist. He looked at her, calming down. 

“Sorry.” He said. 

John looked at them, taking a deep breath. 

“So, no more moustache?” Y/N observed. 

“Yeah. Wasn’t working for me.” John said. 

“I’m glad.” Sherlock said. 

“You didn’t like it?” He asked. 

“No, I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.” Sherlock said.

John sat down in his chair. “That’s not a sentence you hear every day.” 

“Are you feeling alright?” Y/N asked. 

“Yeah, not bad. Bit smoked.” John said. 

“Right.” Sherlock said. 

“Last night, who did that?” John asked. “And why did they target me?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock said. 

“Is it someone trying to get to you through me? Is it something to so with this terrorist thing you talked about?” 

Sherlock moved back to the case board. “I don’t know. I can’t see the pattern, it’s too nebulous.” He said. “Why would an agent give his life to tell us something so incredibly insignificant? That’s what’s strange.” 

“Give his life?” John asked. 

“According to Mycroft. There’s an underground network planning an attack on London, that’s all we know.” He turned to the case board. “These are my rats, John.” 

“Rats?”  

“His markers.” Y/N said. “Criminals, agents, low-lifes. People who could get arrested or deported suddenly.” 

“If one of them starts acting suspiciously, we know something’s up.” Sherlock said. “Five of them are behaving perfectly normally but the sixth…” 

“I know him, don’t I?” John said, pointing to a photo of the man from the underground security feed. 

“Lord Moran, Peer of the Realm. Minister for Overseas Development. Pillar of the Establishment.”

“Yes.” 

“Since 1996, he’s been working for North Korea.” Y/N said. 

“What?” John said. 

“He’s the big rat. Rat number one.” Sherlock said. “He’s just done something very suspicious indeed.” 

They pulled up the security footage and showed him Moran’s disappearance between Westminster and St. James’s Park. 

“There’s something, something, something I’m missing.” Sherlock said. 

“Any idea who they are, this underground network?” John asked. 

“Underground network.” Y/N repeated to herself, replaying the footage. 

“Our rat’s just come out of his den.” Sherlock said. 

“Sherlock,” Y/N said. “It’s not an underground network, it’s an Underground network!” 

“Right.” John said. “What?” 

Sherlock nodded, moving over to the desk. “Sometimes a deception is so audacious, so outrageous that you can’t see it even when it’s staring you in the face.” 

He replayed the security footage. 

“Seven cars leave Westminster and only six arrive at St. James’s Park.” Y/N pointed out. 

“Ah, but that’s...I mean, it’s impossible.” John said. 

“Moran didn’t disappear. The entire Tube compartment did.” Sherlock said. “The driver must have diverted the train and then detached the last carriage.” 

“Detached it where?” John asked. “You said there was nothing between those stations.” 

“Not on the maps, but once you eliminate all other factors, the only thing remaining must be the truth. That carriage vanished, so it must be somewhere.” Sherlock said. 

“But why, though? Why detach it in the first place?” John wondered. 

“It vanishes between St. James’s Park and Westminster.” Sherlock said. “Lord Moran vanishes, John is kidnapped and nearly burned to death at a fireworks party…” 

“Oh my God.” Y/N said. “Sherlock, it’s the fifth of November.” 

Sherlock turned to the case board. “Lord Moran, he’s a Peer of the Realm, normally he’d sit in the House. Tonight there’s an all-night sitting to vote on the new anti-terrorism bill. But he won’t be there, not tonight. Not the fifth of November.”

“‘Remember, remember.’” John said. 

“‘Gunpowder, treason, and plot!’” Sherlock finished. 

“We need to call Howard Chilcott.” Y/N said. 

Howard spoke over video chat. “There’s nothing down there, Mr. Holmes. I told you. No sidings, no ghost stations.” 

Sherlock searched the maps strewn across the kitchen table. “There has to be. Check again.” 

“This whole area is a big mess of old and new stuff.” John said. “Charing Cross is made up of bits of older stations like Trafalgar Square, Strand.” 

“It’s none of those, we’ve accounted for those.” Sherlock said. 

“St. Margaret Street, Bridge Street, Sumatra Road, Parliament Street…” Y/N suggested, cross-referencing an old map. 

“Hang on, hang on, Sumatra Road.” Howard said. “You mentioned Sumatra Road, Ms. Hudson. There is something! I knew it rang a bell. Yes. There was a station down there.” 

“Well, why wasn’t it on the maps?” John asked. 

“Because it was closed before it ever opened.” Howard explained. “They built the platforms, even the staircases, but it all got tied up in legal disputes, so they never built the station on the surface.” 

Howard pointed to it on a map. 

“It’s right under the Palace of Westminster.” Y/N breathed. 

“So what’s down there? A bomb?” John asked. 

Sherlock and Y/N both made for the door, grabbing coats and gloves on the way. 

“Oh.” John said, scrambling to follow. 

Y/N hailed a separate cab. “You take John to Westminster. I’ll go to MI6 and call you a back-up team.” She said. 

“What? No, I need-” Sherlock protested. 

“You have John.” She said. “I have to go deal with a certain rat.” 

Sherlock smiled briefly as she got into her taxi and he and John got into the other. 

 

Y/N reached her office, and picked up her phone, dialing the secure line to her team. 

“Red five, this is Agent Hudson, I need bomb squad at 51.4995 degrees North, 0.1248 degrees West. There is an abandoned Underground tunnel set to explode right beneath Parliament. I need a response team there now.” 

“Copy that, ma’am.” 

Y/N hung up the phone, grabbed a gun, and headed downstairs to meet several other agents. They rode together to one of London’s fancier hotels, and got into position. 

Lord Moran exited his room, looking down the hallway on his way to elevator. He pressed the button several times, getting anxious. The door wouldn’t open, and he began pressing repeatedly, panicking. 

Y/N cocked the gun, holding it to the back of his head. The other agents came around corners and through doors, pointing their guns at the traitor. Lord Moran dropped his case, and put his hands up. 

~

Mary, John, Sherlock, Y/N, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson all gathered in 221B to celebrate the averted attack and John and Mary’s engagement. Sherlock excused himself briefly to answer a distress call from Mycroft. Evidently  _ Les Mis _ was going to kill him. Outside, reporters and camera crews milled about, waiting to hear the story of how Sherlock solved the latest case. 

“Oh, I’m really pleased, Mary. Have you set a date?” Mrs. Hudson asked. 

“Well we thought May.” Mary said. 

Sherlock opened a bottle of champagne, pouring a glass for everyone. 

“Ah, a spring wedding.” Mrs. Hudson said. 

“Yeah, well once we’ve actually got engaged.” Mary quipped.

“Yeah.” John said. 

“We were interrupted last time.” She sent Sherlock a look. 

Y/N chuckled, and Sherlock smiled. 

“Well, I can’t wait.” Lestrade said. 

“You will be there, Sherlock?” Mary asked. 

“Weddings, not really my thing.” He said, but winked. 

Just then, Molly arrived with her own fiancée, Tom. 

“Hello.” She greeted. “This is Tom. Tom, this is everyone.” 

“Hi.” He said. 

“Hi.” Lestrade said, trying not to laugh. 

“It’s really nice to see you again.” Tom said to John and Mary. “And nice to meet some of you.” He said, looking to Sherlock and Lestrade. 

Sherlock sized Tom up, and then looked at Y/N. Sherlock shook Tom’s hand. Y/N could see the laughter in his eyes as he headed for the stairs. 

“Ready?” Sherlock said to her and John. 

“Ready.” 

The three of them headed downstairs to talk to the press. In the entryway, Sherlock and Y/N put on their coats. 

“So you’re responsible that?” Sherlock asked her, chuckling. 

“Not a word.” She grumbled. 

“Best not.” John agreed. “But I’m still waiting.” 

“Hmm?” Sherlock asked. 

“Why did they try and kill me?” John asked. “If they knew you were onto them, why come after me? Put me in the bonfire?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing.” Sherlock admitted. “Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John, real life is rarely so neat. I don’t know who was behind all this, but I will find out, I promise you.” 

“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this.” John warned. 

“Hmm?” 

“Being back. Being a hero again.” John said. 

“Don’t be stupid.” Sherlock protested. 

“You’d have to be an idiot not to see it.” John said. “You love it.”  

“Love what?” 

“Being Sherlock Holmes.” Y/N said.

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.” Sherlock said, turning towards the door.

“Sherlock, you are going to tell me how you did it?” John asked. “How you jumped off that building and survived?” 

“You know my methods, John. I am known to be indestructible.” Sherlock said.

“No, but seriously. When you were dead, we went to your grave.” John said. 

Y/N crossed her arms, remembering that day. 

“I should hope so.” Sherlock said. 

“I made a little speech.” John continued. “I actually spoke to you.” 

Sherlock turned around. “I know. I was there.” 

“I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead.” John said. 

“I heard you.” Sherlock said. “I heard both of you.” 

His piercing blue eyes met Y/N’s gaze. Her pulse raced and she felt as if her heart had just dropped into her shoes. 

“Anyway,” Sherlock said, turning back to the door. “Time to go and be Sherlock Holmes.” 

He grabbed a deerstalker cap and pulled it on, opening the door and greeting the crowd. Y/N followed, but her thoughts were elsewhere. 

_ “I love you. I should say that I loved you, but I can’t. I love you, Sherlock Holmes...You changed me. You showed me things, you made me feel things, you made me think. God, you made me angry. I hated you some days, but hate is not the opposite of love. Indifference is. I could never be indifferent to you.”  _ She remembered. 

_ “I heard both of you.”  _

_ Shit.  _

_ He knows.   _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my.   
> I am evil, aren't I?   
> What do we think? Let me know! As always, I'm giving you all my love <3


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this chapter will make up for my absence.

Y/N rose slowly on Sunday morning. 

She’d stayed up late the night before, enthralled with a book. Sherlock was finishing up a case, so Y/N didn’t feel rude withdrawing to John’s chair ― really their shared chair now ― with her novel. While Sherlock disassembled his case board, Y/N got comfortable and sipped a cup of tea while she read. 

She began sitting upright. Eventually, her legs made their way over the arm of the chair so she was sitting sideways. A short while after that, she pulled her long limbs in, curling up in the chair and continuing to read. 

Sherlock contacted his client, arranging to meet in the next few days to review the solution of the case. He looked over at Y/N, as was his habit. The corner of his mouth quirked up at the sight of her new position. His flatmate was blissfully unaware of the world around her, occupied by the characters she felt she knew. The tall detective wasn’t much for fiction, but decided to give it a try since he had nothing better to do at the moment. 

Sherlock walked over to the bookshelf and selected Y/N’s favorite:  _ Persuasion. _ He made it about four pages in, and found he loathed it. Austen talked about connections and people and feelings and he easily understood how Y/N could love it, but he was already bored.

Y/N smiled and read her own book as fast as she could, inhaling the happy conclusion. Y/N shut her book, reveling in the goosebumps on her arms and the satisfaction of having completed a wonderful story. Y/N had a glow about her in that moment―an aura of contentment and lovliness no one could resist if they tried.  She looked up, suddenly aware of someone looking at her. 

Sherlock stared at her. His blue eyes trapped her, as they always did. Sherlock turned the page of his book without shifting his gaze. Y/N felt a shiver travel down her spine. 

“Happily ever after?” Sherlock asked. 

“The best kind.” Y/N said, sitting upright again. “Love and friendship for all those who deserve it.” 

“The wonders of fiction.” Sherlock mused. 

Y/N yawned. “Indeed.” 

“You should go to bed.” He suggested. 

Y/N yawned again, nodding in sleepy agreement. Sherlock smiled. 

“Sweet dreams, Sherlock.” Y/N said with a smile before heading up to her bedroom. 

“Good night, Y/N.” Sherlock replied. 

Sherlock turned his attention reluctantly back to the story of Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth.   _ “They were gradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly fell in love...Troubles soon arose...More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful interest had reached its close...No one had ever come within the Kellynch circle, who could bear a comparison to Frederick Wentworth as he stood in her memory.”  _

“Perhaps not always fiction…” Sherlock said to himself, reading on despite himself. 

Sunlight brushed against Y/N’s eyelids, encouraging her to stir and greet the day. She lazily rolled out of bed and trudged into the kitchen. Y/N tried to tame her hair while the kettle boiled. 

Sherlock’s client had already come and gone. He sat in his chair, reading. Y/N brought  her tea into the sitting room and sat cross legged in her chair. The sleeves of her sweater were pulled down over her hands. She took a sip of her tea. 

“What are you reading?” Y/N asked. 

“Why didn’t Anne tell Wentworth she still loved him?” Sherlock asked. 

“You’re reading  _ Persuasion? _ ” Y/N exclaimed. 

“When he came back, why didn’t she tell him?” 

“Well, because things had changed so much.” Y/N said. “She’d lost money, he’d become rich, they hadn’t spoken in eight years. The only thing that stayed the same was her feelings, but how was she to know he felt the same, especially since she rejected him. And then, of course, she thought he was in love with Louisa, and with Mr. Elliot suddenly in the picture―well, you’ve read it.” 

“It was an interesting study of people.” Sherlock said. 

“That’s one way to look at it, I suppose.” Y/N said, looking past him, and out the window. “It always reminds me that love can be lasting and persevering. It’s inspiring.” 

“I see now why you like it so much.” Sherlock said. 

He watched her as she lost herself in thinking about the book, feeling as though her smile was just for him. She looked back at him, her smile growing. 

“Does this mean you’ll read  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ too?” She asked. 

“Of course not.” He scoffed. “I said I see why  _ you  _ like it. I never said I did.” 

Y/N laughed. “A girl can hope.” 

“Yes, I’d say she can.” 

~

Sherlock planned to surprise Y/N. He heard her complaining to Mary about her long days at the office. Evidently other government agents didn’t make for good lunch companions and Y/N was too busy to have eat at the clinic with Mary and John or come home during her break. 

Sherlock decided he would go to her. 

A farmers market type of event was setting up for the lunch rush when he arrived. As Sherlock crossed the courtyard, a man in a green apron carrying a cooler bumped into him. 

“Oh, sorry.” The man said. 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in annoyance, but he managed to say, “It’s alright.” 

“Hang on,” the man said before Sherlock could walk too far. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” 

“Probably.” Sherlock said. “Excuse me.” 

With that, he continued on his way to find Y/N and treat her to lunch. 

Her office door was open when he arrived. Sherlock stopped in the doorway when he saw her. She stood across from her case board, but didn’t look at it. She was deep in her own mind palace ― even though she refused to call it that. Apparently the phrase sounded too high and mighty. She twirled a pen between her fingers while she thought. 

Sherlock leant against the doorframe, a small smile appearing on his face. His gaze tracked along her figure. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, as they always were when she worked. A strand of her hair fell from where it had been tucked behind her ear; a beam of sunlight from the window set it aglow. Y/N inhaled, her eyes refocusing. She turned around and scribbled something onto her case file laying on the desk. 

She noticed him then, her face breaking into a huge surprised grin. 

Sherlock’s chest felt tighter as he felt his heartbeat speed up. 

“Sherlock!” She exclaimed. “What brings you to the British Government?” 

“You said you wanted someone to eat lunch with, and my case is rather boring at the moment.” Sherlock said. 

“I do believe I said that the Mary…” Y/N said. 

“I do listen occasionally.” Sherlock said defensively. 

Y/N smiled. “Only occasionally.” She teased. 

“Yes, well are you hungry?” He asked, feeling awkward all of a sudden. 

“Ravenous.” She said. 

Y/N grabbed her coat and they walked down to the market. Sherlock noticed a sandwich stall as they walked around, and steered Y/N towards it. 

“Sherlock, I don’t―” She began to protest. 

“Y/N, based on about 47% of the things I’ve seen you eat, this place is perfect.” Sherlock said. 

“Yes, but―” She tried again, but it was too late. 

“Y/N?” Andrew asked. 

“Andrew. Hi.” She said with a strained smile. 

“You look great! How have you been?” Andrew asked. 

Sherlock’s smile disappeared. “Andrew” was wearing a green apron. 

“Good, yeah, I’ve been good.” Y/N cleared her throat. “I thought Kelly was running the stall these days.” 

“She is,” Andrew said. “She’s out sick today, so I’m covering.” 

Sherlock did not like the way Andrew was smiling at Y/N. 

“Oh.” Y/N said. “Well, tell her I hope she feels better.” 

Sherlock watched Y/N’s awkward and defensive body language as she spoke to the man in the green apron. She refused to look at Sherlock. She was guilty. 

“I knew I knew you from somewhere!” Andrew said to Sherlock. “You’re the guy in all those photos at her flat. Sherlock, right?” 

That man had been to 221B. 

“Yes.” Sherlock said coldly.

“Well,” Y/N said, “We’d better be going. It was nice to see you, Andrew.” 

“You too, Y/N.” Andrew said. “Hey, man, you’re one lucky guy. I hope you’re giving her whatever it was that I couldn’t.” Andrew said to Sherlock. 

Y/N shut her eyes and bit her lip. There it was. 

Sherlock walked away, his coat flapping. Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose, resisting the impulse to scream in frustration. 

“Thanks for that, Andrew.” She said. “He and I aren’t together.” 

“I don’t think he knows that.” Andrew said. 

Y/N sighed, pulling out her phone and texting Mycroft she was taking the rest of the day off. Y/N jogged in the direction Sherlock took off in, hailing a taxi and asking them to take her back to Baker Street. 

She ran up the stairs to 221B to find Sherlock seated in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his face. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at her. 

“Sherlock―” 

“When did you two get together?” Sherlock asked. 

“About year after you...after St. Barts.” Y/N said quietly. 

“How long?” 

“A month.” 

“When did it end?” He still didn’t look at her.

“A few months before you came back.” She said. “I ended it. I wasn’t...well, I ended it.” 

“Sherlock, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Y/N went on. “I didn’t know how to and then it didn’t seem important anymore and…” she trailed off. 

“What was most attractive about him?” Sherlock asked sarcastically. “His sandwiches or his stupidity?” He stood up and looked into the empty fireplace. 

“Okay, now that’s not fair.” Y/N started to get angry. 

“Oh, it’s not?” Sherlock challenged, turning to look at her. 

“No. Yes, I shouldn’t have kept the fact that he and I dated from you, but you have no right to―” Y/N said. 

“No right?” Sherlock interrupted. “You picked some daft smiling sandwich man―”

“YOU WERE DEAD, SHERLOCK!” Y/N yelled. 

The detective fell silent. 

“I saw you die. I thought you had left me forever.” She said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry that I was devastated. I’m sorry that without I didn’t feel like myself. I’m sorry that I was lonely and that I tried to make the pain in my chest go away. Do you want to know the worst part, Sherlock? I’m  _ not _ sorry that it didn’t work. Andrew is nice, and he was attentive and complimentary, but you’re right, he’s an idiot. He’s normal and boring, and I didn’t love him. I don’t love him.” 

Sherlock closed the distance between them, reaching out to her. Y/N pushed her forearms against his chest, sobbing and fighting back. 

“No. No, you―you left! You made me think you were gone. I was so  _ angry _ , Sherlock. I―” Y/N broke down, crying. 

She stopped fighting him, collapsing into his chest as his arms circled around her frame and held her tightly. 

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Sherlock said firmly. “ _ I’m _ sorry.” 

He held her until her breathing steadied. Sherlock pulled away enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks. 

“I’m not particularly used to this apologizing thing,” He began. 

Y/N laughed a little, making both of them feel lighter. 

“I’m sorry for getting angry about that sandwich man, you’re right that I shouldn’t have. I wasn’t used to the feeling I had seeing someone else...and the thought of him and you…” Sherlock fumbled with what he was trying to say. “How do people do this?” He lamented. 

“Sherlock…” Y/N whispered, a bubble of hope beginning to swell in her chest. 

“He was going to kill you.” Sherlock went on. “Moriarty. If he didn’t believe I’d lost, he was going to kill everyone in my life that I cared about. Mycroft and I considered telling you the plan, telling you I was alive, but we decided against it. You wouldn’t have been able to keep it from John, and you know he’d make a big fuss and unintentionally ruin my mission.” 

“I hate it, but you’re right.” Y/N sighed. 

“I couldn’t let you die, Y/N, so I let you believe I had. I’m not sorry I did it, but I know you mourned and I know that I caused you pain. I’m sorry for that.” Sherlock said.

Y/N pressed her forehead against his, looking deep into the blue eyes she loved so much. 

“I forgive you, Sherlock.” She said. “I forgave you the minute you came home.” 

“Y/N,” Sherlock slipped a hand underneath her hair, cradling the back of her head.

“Yes?” Y/N breathed. 

Sherlock paused, trying to get words out he’d never been able to say before. Failing, he decided to show her instead. 

Sherlock captured her lips in a kiss. Y/N kissed him back, gripping the front of his shirt in her hands. The kiss was intoxicating, filled with years of unspoken feelings and a connection deeper than either of them had ever felt. 

They separated for air, and Y/N opened her eyes slowly, feeling as if she’d been floating and was coming back to earth. Sherlock’s stare was intense, and for the first time Y/N felt like she could see him. This was a Sherlock no one else except himself knew. And he was all hers. 

Y/N moved her hands up his chest, fiddling with the undone top button of his shirt. Her cheeks glowed from the kiss, and her breathing was fast from the rush of emotion and the pounding of her heart. 

Sherlock found her absolutely irresistible. 

Sherlock put his other hand on her waist and pulled her closer. He kissed her again. Y/N slid her hands above the solidness of his chest and let them rest on his shoulders. She matched his kiss with another, and his for hers, until they lost sense of anything but the feeling of being together. 

Eventually, Y/N’s stomach growled. 

Sherlock started to laugh. Y/N covered her face with her hands, embarrassed. Sherlock took her hands in his, not wanting to stop looking at her for a second. 

“I’ll make you a sandwich.” He said. 

Y/N playfully hit him on the arm. “Mean. You’re mean.” She said. 

“And yet…” He said more seriously, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. 

“And yet.” She agreed.

Sherlock kissed her one more time. He moved around her and headed to the kitchen. 

Afterall, he still owed her a nice lunch. 

~

Later in the evening, Sherlock sat in his chair, playing a melody here and there. Y/N finished tidying up the kitchen, enjoying the music. As she came into the sitting room, Sherlock watched her every move, from the slight sway of her hips to the loving smile on her face. 

He paused in his playing as she came to stand in front of him. With gentle hands, she took the instrument away from him and set the bow and violin next to the chair. Sherlock looked up at her, drinking in the sight of her. She put her hand on his shoulder as she perched on the arm of his chair. He brought his arm up around her waist and pulled her down onto his lap. She steadied herself by placing both hands on his shoulders and he held her securely with both arms. Y/N looked down at him, their noses nearly touching. 

“Hi.” She said. 

“Hello.” He replied. 

“So,” Y/N said, “You kissed me.” 

“I did. Repeatedly.” Sherlock said. 

Y/N smiled softly to herself. She sat up a little and ran her hands through his hair. Sherlock’s eyes closed at the comforting sensation. Y/N’s fingers settled at the base of his neck, playing with the curls. 

“Why didn’t you tell me how you felt?” She asked. “When you came back. You heard me in the cemetery; you knew how I felt.” 

“I didn’t know.” Sherlock said. “Two years had passed and after seeing John again...I thought you’d be angry with me too. I wanted to be sure.” 

“And are you?” 

“Completely.” He said. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He parrotted her question back to her. 

Y/N looked down, focussing on the buttons of his shirt. 

“I was afraid.” She admitted. 

“Of what?” 

“Of ruining everything.” She said. “Before, I thought you loved Irene Adler, and I felt so small in comparison. I know that I want a relationship, and I didn’t know what you wanted, so I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or screw up our friendship. I still don’t really know what you want...” 

Y/N met his gaze, her eyes full of trepidation. 

“Sherlock, what are we?” She asked. 

He paused, thinking. His thumb brushed over her hip a few times. 

“Together.” Sherlock said. 

“Together.” She agreed. 

Y/N brought a hand up to his jaw. She kissed him. Y/N was slow and gentle, reveling in the feeling of being so close to him, of being together. 

Sherlock shifted in his seat, tightening his grip on her with one arm while the other came up to the back of her head. His fingers slipped into her hair as he deepened the kiss. Y/N smiled, breaking the kiss. 

“Good night, Sherlock.” She said. 

Y/N ducked back in, kissing him once more. Sherlock was reluctant to let her go, his body felt colder the instant she stood up. 

Y/N made for the stairs, intending to head to her room. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

Sherlock’s tone halted her progress. Y/N felt a shiver run down her spine. 

“I’m going to bed.” Y/N said without turning around.

Sherlock stood up as well, he walked over to her, stopping right behind her. Y/N felt his chest brush against her as he leaned forward and spoke in her ear. 

“You’re going the wrong way.” 

Y/N felt light-headed. She blinked, following Sherlock on unsteady legs to his room down the hall. 

“Wait here.” 

Y/N sat on the bed as Sherlock closed the door behind him. Her entire body thrummed with nerves. Y/N was surprised, pleasantly so, but also filled with insecurity. 

Sherlock came back carrying a pair of her pajamas. 

Y/N smiled. She accepted them with a kiss. Y/N walked around the bed, facing away from Sherlock. She changed quickly, feeling less nervous, but still a little awkward. 

Y/N was unaware of Sherlock’s gaze. He swallowed thickly at the sight of her back, fighting an impulse to reach out and touch the soft skin of her shoulder. 

_ Don’t rush.  _ He thought. 

Sherlock shook himself out of distraction and changed into his own nightclothes. 

Y/N turned around before he’d put on a shirt. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a smile as her eyes widened. She couldn’t stop herself from tracing the lean muscles of his chest and stomach with her gaze. 

Sherlock pulled his shirt on, enjoying the blush spreading across Y/N’s face. She walked a little faster than necessary out of the room on her way to brush her teeth. Sherlock followed, smiling to himself. 

They climbed into bed a few minutes later. Y/N flipped onto her side so she could look at Sherlock. He mirrored her, his eyes looking more green than blue in the low light. 

“Why did you want to be a pirate when you were little?” Y/N asked. 

Sherlock chuckled. He reached over and pulled her closer to him, eliminating the few inches separating them. Y/N reached up and began playing with his hair again. 

“I think I liked the adventure of it.” Sherlock said. “Fun rule-breaking, plunder on the high seas, yelling foul words to your cabin crew.” 

“Did Mycroft hate it?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

Y/N giggled. “There’s the real reason.” She teased. 

“Have you always loved me?” Sherlock asked after a moment. 

Y/N gently traced his face with her fingertip. The touch of her hand left a tingling warmth across his cheekbones, his nose, his jaw. 

“I don’t know.” She said. “I’ve always been fascinated by you, but I’m not sure I can pinpoint the moment I began to love you.” 

“‘I was in the middle before I knew I’d begun.’” He said. 

Y/N propped herself up on her arm. “Hang on, that’s from  _ Pride and Prejudice _ ! You said―” 

Sherlock silenced her with a kiss. Y/N didn’t attempt to resist. 

~

The morning sunlight found Y/N and Sherlock sleeping peacefully. Y/N was tucked close to him, his arms wrapped around her. Her face tilted up towards him as she slept. Their legs were tangled together. 

Sherlock, unused to a long night’s sleep, inhaled deeply. He blinked awake. Sherlock had never felt so warm and content in his life. The tenderness he felt for the woman asleep next to him was still new, and deeply confusing, but he refused to fight it.

Sherlock studied her face, peaceful as she dreamed. 

_ I love her. _

He pressed a kiss to the soft spot under her ear, where her neck began. He kissed the bruises scattered across her neck and collarbone, pleased with himself. Y/N shifted, slowly reaching consciousness. She smiled sleepily at Sherlock. 

“G’morning.” She mumbled. 

“Good morning.” 

Y/N propped herself up on her arm. “Part of me was worried that I dreamt all of―”

“Sherlock?” Came John’s voice on the stairs. “Y/N? Anybody home?” 

Y/N sat up suddenly, eyes wide. “What do we do?” She whispered. “I hadn’t thought about telling John.” 

Sherlock was far less concerned about the matter. He disentangled himself from Y/N, found his clothes on the floor and pulled them back on. Sherlock grabbed his dressing gown, and walked back out into the flat. 

“John.” Sherlock greeted. 

“You’re up late.” John said. “Closed a big case?” 

“Nope.” Sherlock said. 

Sherlock walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. He got out three mugs. 

“Where’s Y/N?” John asked. 

“Still in bed.” Sherlock said.

The door to his room opened again, and Y/N appeared, dressed and blushing from head to toe. 

“Out of bed.” He corrected nonchalantly, continuing with the tea. 

John’s eyebrows rose first, and then his mouth dropped open. Then he grinned and shouted loud enough for the entire city to hear. 

“BLOODY FINALLY!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. It seems we've made it. I can't wait to read your comments :D


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